Double Feature
by DemonFox38
Summary: It's Halloween. It's Mann Manor. Creepy crawlies are everywhere, and the only way out is through them. It's going to be a hell of a night for the boys and Miss Pauling.
1. Minor Offense

**Double Feature**

* * *

><p>There was so much wrong with this place.<p>

It was on the outskirts of a dense, twisted wood, sitting just north of a dark, murky lake. In its fat splendor, it squatted on a bank. The once charming scarlet paint was gone, save for a few patches here and there. Yellowed curtains slumped over wide windows, some of the fabric molding and rotted away. Short pumpkins grew in clumps around the decaying manor like bulky weeds. It was clear that nobody had been here to help with the upkeep of this place. However, there were lights coming from inside, warm tones illuminating a stained-glass window. The monogrammed crimson letter beckoned in the cloudy sky, drawing the vehicles approaching the dilapidated manor closer and closer to its traps.

All it needed now was a cloud of bats and a clap of thunder.

Now that the Scout stopped to think about it, this whole adventure was boiling down into something out of a cartoon. He was stuck in a hippie van—a Kombinationskraftwagen , whatever—with four others. One of them constantly ate sandwiches. Another had a gas mask on and could hardly be understood by anyone. Yet another wore masks and preformed devious tasks on a daily basis. Basically, a crook. The Scout wasn't sure how the Medic worked into this. Maybe he was the one who always lost his glasses. That made sense. Where that left the Scout in this equation, he didn't want to know. There it was. Today was more or less a Scooby Doo episode.

On Halloween.

Good God, that idea sounded awful.

After what had been a three hour drive, the Scout was happy to get out of the van. He hated sitting still for so long, particularly in a cramped space. When the Medic pulled the Kombi to a halt, the Scout flung himself out of the backseat. He took a moment to stretch, working the kinks out of his joints. Stupid German vans. At least there hadn't been any car games. While his teammates unloaded their items from the back of the van, he took a moment to glance around the manor once more. Nope. Still boring.

"Tell me why we're out here again?" the Scout asked. "Do we gotta fight here? I mean, looks like a smelly old house to me. Probably doesn't have cable or nothin'."

The Heavy shook his head. "Net! Is grand home! Good vacation."

"A vacation? In October? Ya nuts?" The Scout began hauling his things out of the trunk. "That Administrator's probably got somethin' up her sleeve. Probably, like, I don't know. Trap doors. Paintin's with eyes that follow ya around the room. Stuff like that."

The Medic shook his head, grabbing two suitcases out of the back. "Really, Scout. I vould expect zat by now, you vould have grown out of such childish nonsense. It is nozing more zan a new location to fight. Zat is all. No tricks, no traps, no ghosts."

"Ghosts? I didn't say nothin' about no ghosts." Now he had a new thing to obsess over. The Scout turned to the Pyro. "Ghosts are flammable, right?"

The rubber-suited man shrugged. "Ahf nerfer bet bun."

The Spy rolled his eyes, annoyed with the topic. He shooed the Scout away from his belongings. "I will have to agree with ze Medic. It's a foolish suggestion. Perhaps you should ease off of zose ridiculous comic books for a while."

"Fine. Fine. I'll drop it. Just tell me if you find any traps, all right? Don't wanna get holed up here." The Scout took his pack and threw it into the manor's entry. What a bunch of killjoys.

Still, it had to have been a better ride than what the other vehicle experienced. Their companion vehicle—an olive Land Rover—pulled into the front circle. Funny. The Scout thought they'd arrive first. Maybe they had pulled over and used a rest stop. That seemed unlikely, considering the numbers of glass jars in that camper and their nefarious purpose. When everyone abandoned the vehicle, most of the passengers looked like they had been blasted in a wind tunnel. This was, of course, for the exception of the red-faced Soldier, who was now proceeding to drill the van's former riders.

"All right, troops! One last time!" The Soldier cracked a riding crop against his left hand, going down a rather unusual list in his head. "Zombies!"

The Sniper started first, weary from the drive and the lecture. "Shoot 'em in the head. Set 'em on fire."

The Soldier rewarded him with an open-handed swat on the shoulder. "Good! Vampires!"

"Stake 'em in the heart, and then you eat garlic and order a pizza and I dunno." Lucky for the Demoman, he was half-way drunken already. The migraine from the Soldier's lecture was disappearing in a Scrumpy buzz.

"Close enough!" The Soldier spun on his heels, now interrogating the Engineer. "Frankenstein!"

The Engineer's temper was running thin. He responded with flat disinterest. "Ya don't kill Frankenstein. Ya kill his monster."

The Soldier was about to correct the Engineer, but stopped in his tracks. "Huh. That's correct. How did they kill that monster, anyway?"

"In the book? They didn't," The Texan pulled a heavy toolbox out of the back of the camper, grunting with the effort. "Now, are ya done with this monster nonsense, or are ya gonna be at it all day?"

This drew a sharp, heavy laugh from the Soldier. He marched around his teammates, careful not to interfere with their work. "Gentlemen, it is Halloween. And I know that maybe you skirt-twirling Tories didn't get a proper education on what that is about, but let me make it perfectly clear. It's the most fatal night to anyone in America. Particularly teenagers. I will not let you all go into the night unprepared! Furthermore, I will not let you suck my blood or eat my flesh when and if you succumb to the forces of darkness. Do I make myself clear?"

"That is totally what I was sayin'," The Scout interrupted the Soldier's drill. "I mean, look at this place, ya know? Looks like a death trap ta me."

"You are correct, son. I'm glad I have one man who follows my lead." The Soldier clapped the boy on the back. "Let's go fortify the guest suites. I get the feeling that we won't be alone tonight."

The Scout was quick to follow him, only pausing once to wonder how incredibly odd that sounded.

* * *

><p>The interior of the manor was off-putting. Many of the walls were decorated with peeling portraits, all swathed with wallpaper as lewd and flashy as a candy striper's skirt. Most of the floors were planked with thick wood. In a few well-trafficked areas, red and gold rugs lay across the paths. Bookshelves sat like honeycombs along some of the lounges and studies. Rooms were falling apart, ceilings collapsing into floors. That didn't even begin to describe the state of the barns just outside the main residence. Nor the secret passageways. The wine cellar. The state of the half-century old regenerator was enough to make her skin crawl, the steam-powered leviathan clogged with spider webs and dead rodents. How it had ever been made functional again, she didn't know—neither Engineer had looked at the contraption. The Administrator had to be out of her mind to want the teams to be here, never the less to fight here.<p>

And yet, Miss Pauling could see why her superior wanted to be here. It had a certain charm to it, at any rate. It could make for an interesting battleground.

She watched the team unpacking below her in the main courtyard. Given the choice between the two, this was her favorite group. While they were lagging by a half of a percent behind the other team, they were pleasant to converse with. She didn't have to worry about them trying to sneak off the base to pull shenanigans or having them smuggling in contraband. There were some odd quirks about the team, to be honest, but at least she didn't have to routinely scold them on behalf of the Administrator.

"So, when are the others arriving?" Miss Pauling asked.

A dark woman fumed from the loveseat towards the back of the study. She released a silent tobacco fog into the air before answering her subordinate. "They aren't."

The assistant lifted her sharp-rimmed frames. "Pardon?"

"The other team will not be joining us this evening," the Administrator's lips curled. "Don't worry, though. I have something better planned for our guests."

There was nothing about that statement that sat well with Miss Pauling. She felt her stomach take a small turn. She found herself fidgeting with a loose, black strand of hair. The motion drew a low chuckle from the Administrator. There had always been an unsteady peace between the two women. Miss Pauling was fantastic with typing and light filing. The Administrator could always count on her to take care of messier ordeals like breaking up cross-faction friendships, romantic rendezvous, and on occasion, skulls. Even though the Administrator was deceptive and cunning, she had her own perks as well. She knew how to keep the monotony of a never-ending war fresh and exciting. She was also amazing to go bargain-hunting with.

In order to keep Miss Pauling from spilling the beans on her plans, sometimes the Administrator was intentionally terse or misleading. Miss Pauling assumed that this was one of those times. She didn't push the subject further. "What do you need me to do?"

The Administrator glanced at an antique clock. Almost time. "Join them in the dining room at seven."

"O-okay." Miss Pauling frowned, but quickly corrected her expression. It was always in the simplest of tasks that the Administrator's most sinister schemes took root. "I didn't think we had a chef here."

The Administrator gave her a grin stolen from Lucifer's mug. "Oh, this old house has dozens of surprises. You might be amazed."

Miss Pauling grimaced. She'd be taking her revolver with her tonight.

* * *

><p>Everything in the dining hall was too neat. Too clean. Somebody had anticipated their arrival, ten china sets spread out across the table. Utensils were in perfect order, napkins folded and bound with metallic rings. Cards sat on the plates, folded horizontally and bearing the team's class names in gold, cursive writing. This should have sent warning bells ringing in the Spy's head. Ten places? Missing or unseen staff members? Personalized cards? This did not make sense.<p>

Perhaps the Scout had not been so daft as to suggest a trap lay in wait for them.

The Engineer was not so hesitant. He took his seat, unrolling the napkin next to his plate. "Man, I'm starven'. I don't think I've eaten in a place this fancy since—well, gosh. I can't recall."

The overly-trusting Texan was joined by the Sniper. Couple of naïve saps. "Ditto. I don't know what ya packed, but I think it threw my back out."

"Leetle man needs to do more work," The Heavy was the next to sit. "Go plow fields for many years. Then, you have more strength. Maybe."

Something prickled at the back of the Spy's neck. He leaned against the table, refusing to completely surrender to the card's wishes. "Don't you all think that something is off?"

Now it was the Medic's turn to rebuke him. "You are getting as bad as ze Scout. Do not be so flighty."

"Indeed. You'll just upset our host." The Soldier dropped the Demoman into his seat, shaking him out of his drunken stupor. He sat down in turn, quick to start playing with his utensils. "I mean, assuming we ever see them and they're not zombies or something."

The Pyro nodded, sitting down next. He pointed across the table to a card opposite his own. "Rooks rik Miff Paufin if err."

The Scout took the card and gave it a glance. "Huh. Wonder why she'll be joining us?"

"It iz probably just protocol. Look, I sink zat ve are all a little too vorked up over zis. Let us just sit down and enjoy our meal. Gott villing, ze booze as well." With those words, the Medic managed to coax the Scout to his seat. It hadn't convinced the Spy, but he'd at least gotten the Frenchman to settle down.

The Demoman was quick to agree. "Here, here! And if the bastahds dunnot have good drink, then a pox on all of their houses and wiveses and childreneses."

That drew another cheer from the crasser teammates. The Spy shook his head, but gave up. At this point, it wasn't going to make much of a difference anyway. Even if there was some kind of nefarious trap waiting to close around him, it wasn't like standing or sitting was going to make a difference. He took his place, then folded his napkin across his lap. He almost wondered if he should have changed into the dining jacket he brought. Oh, well. The gesture would have been lost on his teammates. Maybe not Miss Pauling, though.

Speaking of which, the short little gal arrived. The entire team was quick to acknowledge her with a confused mumbled of multinational greetings. She smiled, taking her seat at the very end of the dining table. The Spy's instincts trembled, but just for a moment. Something was off about Miss Pauling. She seemed meeker than usual. Not that she was a loud bird by any means, but she usually had this cool, confident demeanor. She was just a touch different. What was it? Nervousness? Embarrassment?

Well, the Spy had to know. "I'm assuming that since you are here, zen so is ze Adminstrator. So, what is she doing?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Miss Pauling put up a front. A good one, sure, but something that the Spy could easily remove.

"She has got something treacherous in store for us, does she not?" The Spy was quick to continue his pursuit.

The Sniper broke the sudden tension building between the Spy and the assistant. "Now, Spoi. Cool it, would you?"

"No, no, man. I wanna know, too!" For once, the Scout was completely on the Spy's side. "What's the Admin up to? Like, you don't have to say you told us or anything. Just let us know!"

Miss Pauling smiled. She pulled her seat closer to the table before speaking. "I know as much as you all."

The Spy didn't know how to take the answer. It seemed honest enough. He let it go, tilting his head to the side. He could hear a grandfather clock going off in the hallway. One, Two. A pleasant enough tone. Three, Four. He slid back into his chair, trying to get more comfortable. Five, Six. The toe of his shoe scrapped across something. Wait. That was a—

Seven.

The floor opened beneath him. The Spy fell through ten feet of darkness, followed by a sharp thunk at the bottom. He could hear the collapse of his teammates around him, muffled through the floor's construction. There was something bright beneath him, spinning at a fantastic rate. It looked to be at least fifty years old, constructed with ornate metal beams and klutzy bits of shrapnel. Something completely out of his time, and yet, something familiar. The entrance to a teleporter.

The Spy cussed as the machine fired. "Merde."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

There. That should give you a good start.

I'm not gonna lie—I'm a little proud of myself. I wrote about the Scout and the Spy for once! Hell, I even started working on the Pyro. I never work with those three! This is a fun and strange new world for me.

I was originally going to make a very dark, semi-surreal horror story for Halloween. Then I whiplashed. Not that I don't enjoy writing completely creepy stuff, but sometimes I need to lay off. So, I decided to go with something a little more zany. Not saying that I won't try and be threatening from time to time, but I want you to have a lot of fun reading this.

Well? Are you?


	2. No Support

Well, the Administrator certainly had a strange sense of humor.

Miss Pauling found herself dumped onto the floor of the manor's kitchen. Somebody had affixed an ancient teleporter exit to the ceiling. That seemed like something she should have seen before. The short woman picked herself off the floor, dusting off the back of her lavender shirt. Good day to wear pants. A slight headache was building in the back of her brain. If that was what using a teleporter day in and out was like, then she didn't know how the boys didn't have a migraine every day.

She leaned on the island in the center of the kitchen, trying to shake the fog out of her head. It was there that she found a little surprise. Someone had left a note on the counter. Lying next to it was a meat cleaver. Miss Pauling snatched up the note. It was typed, the ink from the typewriter blotchy and inconsistent. If the Administrator wanted her to pick up more tape, she could have done that.

The letter read like this:

"To all employees:

Welcome to your stay at Mann Manor. As you may have noticed, you are statistically lagging behind your rival teammates. As a corrective measure for this insubordination, I have prepared an exercise for both you and your teammates.

Here are the following points you may wish to review:

1. I recently attended a liquidation sale from a fellow research laboratory in Idaho. Amongst the items that I purchased was a Material Emancipation Grill. Note that this grid will emancipate the flesh from your bones if you attempt to leave this facility. You may only leave when the conditions in point number two are fulfilled.

2. The Material Emancipation Grill can only be turned off by via a key card system located in the cellar. You will need to locate these ten cards before you may leave.

3. As per annual custom, you may notice the dead rising from their respective graves. This is coupled with a rather unseasonal flora and fauna infestation. If you are well versed in context clues, you will understand how to fulfill the goals set for you in point two.

4. Feel free to die as often as you wish. There is an active respawn generator on the premises. Anything you contract will be repaired upon respawning. I would not recommend dying in any method that would cause your resuscitated corpse to be killed again. For further information, please review Professor Huntley's Infinite Elephant Hole paradox.

5. You have been provided with one weapon. Additional weapons may be recovered upon your investigation of the manor.

I would not dawdle if I were you."

Miss Pauling was overcome with several questions and a flustered indignation. It was obvious that the Administrator had planned for her to be a contestant in this event. Why? What was the point? Had she run off after their last conversation? It had been only ten minutes, but—And why a meat cleaver?

This gave her a reason to fret. Miss Pauling had never used the respawn system before. How did that work? Didn't it need information on her first? What if point four didn't apply to her? She paced around the kitchen for a moment, further contemplating her mortality. The Administrator wouldn't do this to her, would she? Well, yes. She would. Miss Pauling blew a strand of hair out of her face. If the Administrator wanted to fire her, she could have just given her a pink slip.

Two plans came to mind. She could wait here and hope the boys would be able to solve the dilemma on their own. That was assuming, of course, they could do it before something came in here and found her. She could also go after them and be killed in some gruesome, yet instantaneous fashion. Neither sounded pleasant.

Well, the Administrator may have intended on her having only one weapon, but Miss Pauling was at least somewhat more prepared. She did bring that pistol with her to the dinner, after all. It was an item that the Scout had given her during a meet at a shooting range. He claimed that he had a dozen of them, so she might as well have it. It had been useful, particularly in getting rid of snooping agents and filmmakers. Maybe it would save her neck again.

There was no point in waiting for the worst to happen. She might as well go slap her death in the face.

* * *

><p>Bon dieu.<p>

The Spy came to in a woman's boudoir. He was lying on a canopied bed, the ruffled top beaded with glass ornaments. Clearly, he'd fallen through the top of that—there was a man-sized hole in the canopy. The entire room was soaked in garnet color. The Frenchmen felt as though he was drowning in duck down. The mattress had lost its spring. He pushed himself out of the queen-sized bed, cracking his neck and fingers as he went. His shoes traced along the edges of a dark hardwood dresser. Lying on the squat piece of furniture was a note and a heavy revolver with a woman's face winking back at him.

He read the letter, finding its contents unsavory. Clearly, this hadn't been his fault. He'd been busy nailing thugs to the wall. He didn't have the luxury of camping a chokehold point or repairing machines all day. He wasn't stuffing his face full of sandwiches. The Frenchman had his goals defined and accomplished on a daily basis. Any failings must have been as a result of the other pissants on his team.

No matter. He went to the large vanity across from the bed. The lower portions of his balaclava were loose. He tucked it back under his shirt collar, then readjusted his tie. Hmph. What had the Administrator been prattling on about? The rising dead? Completely impossible. Assuming that one could regain life after death, there would be a number of complications. Bodies rot. Decay. Stiffen. How could something function like that? And why would they want to come back, assuming there was something behind the mortal coil? That was, if they weren't attempting to escape hell, of course.

"No. Ridiculous," the Spy reassured himself.

"Mmm hmm."

The Spy's back froze. A woman's voice? He took a glance behind him. Most definitely a woman. She looked completely out of her era, frocked in a thick, lacey mass of a peach-colored ball gown. The bodice was too small for a woman of this build, her bosom overflowing delicate trim. That had to be intentional, considering her ampleness. She was wearing gloves—silk, no doubt, but yellowed with age. Dark hair was gathered and pinned to the top of the woman's head in thick curls. What was most striking to the Spy was how pale this woman was. Most of the women in this state were golden as the sun. Not milky blue.

She was strange, but she was still a woman. This was not a problem to a man as suave as the Spy. "May I help you, chère?"

The pale woman giggled at him. Not a talkative one.

The Spy turned back to the mirror, doing some last minute preening. "I do not know what you are doing here, but I would recommend zat you—zat you—mon dieu."

The pale woman had no reflection.

The Spy snapped his head around. The lady finally gave him a smile. Those fangs! She had the mouth of a viper! Merde, a vampire! No need to be gentle now. He chopped the woman in the side of the throat, jumping past her and using the bed as a trampoline to further his progress. She caught the trim of his pants, yanking him back towards the bed. He reached for the dresser, grabbing his revolver. He gave a sharp kick towards the lady's face and pulled the trigger.

He was not surprised when a shot to the center of the woman's head did nothing. He did wonder what biological process caused her brain and skull to mend back together. She gave him a dark smile, spitting the remains of the bullet out of her mouth. That could have been arousing if he wasn't trying to kill her. Maybe to the heart? The standard was for stakes, but the Ambassador did make quite the hole, and if he could just—

The vampire pulled the Spy back onto the bed. Crinoline pushed her dress in awkward directions as she knelt down on his stomach. He fired another shot, watching as the bullet pierced her ribcage, then her heart, then exit. All while tissues sewed themselves back up. His eyes widened as the woman approached his neck. Those teeth glinted in the moonlight, sharp and curved inwards.

He didn't scream as she enclosed those jaws around his neck. He couldn't.

* * *

><p>The Medic had to kneel down, or he was going to pass out.<p>

He had come to in a study, given the same note as everyone else. And a crossbow. That was unexpected. The device was easy enough to use, and it didn't require a lot of physical strength to haul around. He'd felt fine when he had first stepped out into the hall. It was rare that he was ever alone in the field of battle, but he could manage when the occasion arose. When he'd reached the foyer, his mood abruptly changed. And he'd had good reason to panic.

Them. All of them, standing in rank and file. Limbs falling off. Eyes missing. Stomachs bloated. Some with partial hair. Some scalped. The occasional jaw gone. Organs once as shiny and bright as gemstones were now dulled, slimy, falling out from weak tissue. Their heads dragged as they moved, the weight almost too much for their decaying neck. They left a trail of fluids behind them, their decomposition oozing down their backs. The Medic moved a hand over his mouth, trying not to throw up.

No. That was impossible. They could not be.

It was so strange, looking at them. Their profile was human, but they lacked any trace of humanity. They meandered aimlessly, stopping to growl and fight with each other from time to time. They all had a similar uniform on. All the same color, all rotted in various different ways, all with unique medals and trinkets. He didn't know what to think of their costume. Perhaps old cavalry forces? That seemed logical.

The Medic crept back towards the study, analyzing what he had seen. The walking dead. Corpses in motion. Zombies. Oh, there were so many of them. He could probably kill a few of them before they overcame him. Ate his flesh. Ripped him apart. Had a look at his organs. Would the respawn generator put him back in that horde? He would prefer not being a recursive meal to those beasts.

Well, then. It would be simple. He needed to do what he always did—find the Heavy. That massive Russian would have enough firepower to rip through the crowd. Or perhaps the Soldier? That American seemed to have a plan for killing everything. The Demoman could be useful as well, considering how easily he could rip through a crowd of living humans. Oh, and the Pyro! The walking tinderbox! It'd be nothing for him. Just another bonfire! Perhaps it was cowardly to not rush into the lower level of the foyer and take care of the problem himself, but he'd rather not have to die in any unnecessary fashion. No, it was better to—

There was a shadow watching him. The Medic felt his breath choke in his throat.

Perhaps he should have been paying attention to what was going on behind him. Maybe that would have just doomed him faster. But there she was, coming out of a hallway branching to the left. Oh, those eyes. They were beautiful, brilliant as the crimson sun setting in the west. All two, four, six, eight—how many of those faces were there on her head? They wound around in slow, circular paths. Oh, she was gorgeous. Well rounded. Sharp, graceful bones. Swarming with life. That skin, flecked with smooth, green scales. Those lips, full and bright. He'd never seen anything like that. He couldn't have. And yet, he couldn't pull away. He knew the price he would have to pay, but he found himself enchanted.

No man could be given the honor of viewing a gorgon.

The Medic moved to cover his eyes. The motion came seconds too late. A great heaviness spread through his body. He wanted to stagger away, but he couldn't. It was like his feet were nailed to the floor. He glanced down for just a moment, watching a peculiar sheen cover his body. That was different. He was expecting to turn into a marble, granite, perhaps pure quartz. This would have been marvelous, if it wasn't killing him. Golden, but not gold. Australium?

The Medic's heart would have been racing if it hadn't calcified in its final beat.

* * *

><p>He watched the storm rage above his head. The rain could still pass through that grill. Drops splashed through the broken windows of the conservatory, rolling off the tip of his sharp nose. Well, there were worse places to be dropped in the middle of a haunted house. At least he could taste freedom here. The Sniper frowned, noting his mistake. There was no freedom until they got that grill taken care of. That meant he'd have to go and do—well, something.<p>

The Sniper shook his hat, trying to dry it off a little. He needed to find a rifle. The Administrator had given him his bushwacka, but it wasn't enough. He didn't like close quarter combat, even inside of a mansion. He had to get some space. This place was making him claustrophobic.

Everything was alive in here, but why? Wasn't this manor abandoned? It was as if someone god had dug his hands into the Amazon and dropped a forest here. Thick vines choked the ceiling, reaching out into the broken window pane. A peculiar thought crossed his mind. What if the plants had done that? Grown straight on through? What sort of fertilizer would you need to give a plant to give it that strength?

The Sniper found it difficult to reach the doorway. Shrubs and flowers had overgrown their pots, spilling onto the floors and up the walls. He weaved through the plant life, ducking under red blossoms larger than his torso. Not even the Bush was this choked. Even the doorway was overgrown, vines knotted in and out of the frame. He took one vine and gave it a good hack, severing decades of growth.

It screamed.

The Sniper twisted around on his heels. Every plant moved. Every one. It moved in massive green waves, the giant blossoms swaying back and forth in pain. It was alive? Of course it alive. It was a plant, after all. But now, it seemed to recognize pain. How could it do that with no brain? No nervous system? Unless those vines were—

"Holy!" The clots in the doorway pulled out of the frame, pushing the Sniper back into the conservatory. It flung him into the center, smashing him face-first into a root with bumps larger than his hands. He regained his balance, trying to figure out what the hell he'd done. He steeled his grip on the bushwacka.

The blow came in from the left. A tendril as large as the Heavy's arm struck him across the face. The inertia from the attack rolled him. His glasses shattered in thousands of useless pieces on the ground. Blood rolled down the front of his face. The cut was jagged, made worse by the thorns that dotted the vine's skin. The Sniper hissed in pain and surprise. That should have blinded him.

He wished the plant would have taken his sight. He saw a great blossom billow above him, white and pink, wide as a truck. How had he not seen it before? A long stamen erupted from its center, reaching down and probing for the creature that had severed its body. It smelt horrible, like rotting fish. Even as his body froze in terror, the Sniper kept trying to find the name for this monster. He'd read about it before, a cultural message from the Queen's empire echoing through her roots.

The name came to him as the triffid struck him across the chest. Agony spurred the animalistic urge to run. The Sniper turned for the door, hacking at everything in his path. If there was a key in here—if that plant had it, somehow—he wasn't getting it on his own. He needed help. Green life whirled around him, the triffid continuing to shriek as he mulched his way to the door. He was single-minded in his purpose. He had to run.

His body was slowing. No, no, no. His chest burned with venomous fire. Poison. The Sniper was falling, every slash taking him closer to freedom and the floor. He was on his knees before he reached the frame, crawling and stabbing with every ounce of vitriol left in his body. He dug into the floor, his bushwacka piercing the wooden paneling just outside the frame. If he could just go a little more—a little further—

Everything went green.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

You know what is a damn shame about Netflix? You can't stream The Day of the Triffids or The Blob. Le boo. (Yes, that's a clue, you hippies.)

As you may have guessed, I'm a bit of a B-movie fan. I blame my father. No, I blame Mystery Science Theater 3000. No, wait! John Carpenter! Roger Corman? Well, whatever. The fact is that I enjoy a good old fashioned monster movie from time to time. They're hokey, sure. Sometimes you don't like things because they are elegant or in good taste. Sometimes, you want Hershey's over Godiva. Know what I mean?

I should have taken a cue from Cat Bountry and have called this chapter "With Apologies to Eximplode." Although, I think maybe we're going in different directions. (Seriously—go read The Nucleus Incident! And if, in some sick coincidence, Eximplode is reading—go update The Nucleus Incident!)

Got my third milestone for Medic achieved. Bam. I am the uberwench.


	3. Little Darling

The billiard room was now the war room.

Well, every room was the war room, if the Soldier saw it fit. He'd been quick to make his conversions. The crazed American had flipped over the pool table, hunkering behind it for the moment. He'd secured a pencil and a notepad from a table containing decades of game scores. The first goal was to create a map. Easy. He drew a rectangle outlining his location. Well, that was about all he knew for the moment. It was a start.

That meant going outside next. Not a problem. He had one of the most traumatic, lethal weapons known to mankind—a frying pan. Good! Now he just had to face the enemy, wherever it was. Or whatever it was. The Administrator hadn't given him enough information to build a decent offensive strategy, but at least he had a head start.

"Anybody here?"

Oh, crap! Someone had broken into his camp! The Soldier rose to action, lifting his frying pan and yelling a blood-curdling scream. His visitor was not impressed with his bravado. "Would ya put that down? Crazy Yank."

Ah hah! A fellow American! Good! The Soldier greeted his new recruit. "Welcome to the war room, grease monkey! You're just in time."

The Engineer frowned. "Time for what?"

"Time for—well, time for action!" The Soldier couldn't let his plans slip too early. "First things first. I demand a status report! To the bunker!" With that, he ducked behind the pool table once more.

The Engineer gave a low growl, but decided to join the Soldier. He shut the door behind him. It was amazing that the Soldier had flipped the table on his own. It looked plenty heavy. The Texan hunkered next to the Midwesterner, careful not to squash any of the papers he had strewn about.

The Texan proceeded to talk, slow and careful with his words. "I woke up in the library. Just next door. Came to with a note and a pistol. I started snoopin' around, just outta curiosity. That's when I found this."

He unfurled a worn blueprint, the edges stained with coffee. It was falling apart, folded lines splitting the aged paper. The Soldier didn't know what to make of it. It looked like his Engineer's work, the lines all neat. Every object was notated, taken apart, detailed to the screw. The blueprint itself contained instructions for building primitive sentries. They looked much like the sentries the Engineer currently used, save for one. It had one unique feature—bipedal mobility.

"What is that? Some kind of robot?" The Soldier asked.

The Engineer nodded. "'Fraid so. My grandpappy's work. Don't know what it's doin' here, though." He removed his helmet, rubbing the back of his head. Little hairs prickled his fingers. He needed to shave it again. "None of this makes any sense ta me. Where would the Administrator have gotten another techie to rig all of this up?"

"I don't understand many things, hardhat. Like countable infinities and fractions. But I'm not asking questions! I'm demanding—no, making answers!" The Soldier jumped to his feet, thumping his chest. "We're gonna go out there, and we're going to kick some undead ass! Then we are going to a taco hut and we will procure some sleazy Sallies in bunny costumes! Then we're going to make love to them! Sweet, regrettable love! Are you with me?"

The Engineer stammered. "Wha—"

This prompted the Soldier to pick him up by his overalls and give him a good shake. "What are you, French? We're talking victory and easy women! What could you possibly have to object?"

"Hate to argue with you, Soldier, but…" The Engineer stopped his sentence. He heard the faintest of songs coming from above his head. The Soldier slowed his tirade as well, now listening to the music coming from upstairs. Odd. Not to say that it wasn't out of place to begin with, but it was a tune from the wrong time for this mansion's age and decoration. It was catchy, poppy. Sung by British fellows.

The Soldier growled. "What is that crap?"

The Engineer shook his head. "I think it's the Beatles."

* * *

><p>"Shut up, you stupid freakin' thing!"<p>

The Scout took another whack at the record player. What was this thing made out of? Australium? It continued spinning in its path, a cheerful tune continuing to mock him with nonsensical lyrics about the winter and faces and some dumb little darling bimbo. He shouldn't have touched it, but it was so out of place. He wanted some noise to keep him from going bonkers. Now, the record player wouldn't stop. He couldn't even get the record out of it—the rotating center was protected by what must have been a diamond cover. It wasn't plugged into the wall, running off an internal battery. Geez, the Engineer couldn't have built something this annoying.

George and Paul laughed at his efforts. "Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here."

The Scout groaned at it. "Come on!"

He took another whack at it with the Sandman. The attack managed to produce a gurgled warp in the tune, only to have the record player start at the beginning of the song again. The Scout swore at it and gave up. He sat down for a moment, trying to think about what to do while Ringo was bashing away in his head. He'd come to in the attic, and man, was it freaking hot. He hated to admit it, but he wasn't looking forward to going downstairs. God only knows what was waiting for him down there. Yeah, maybe he could outrun it or bash its brains in. But maybe he couldn't. It wasn't like he knew where the doc or the nearest health kit was. Like the Administrator would be so kind. So, in a rare moment of indecisiveness, he found himself rooting through the contents of the attic. All his search had done was reward him with the same Beatles song played ad nauseum.

Well, it was pretty pointless just to sit around and mope, too. "Fine, I'll go."

"It's all right," Paul and George encouraged the Scout. Then they started looping again. "Sun, sun, sun. Here it comes!"

"Would you fricken' knock it off?" The Scout might as well have been arguing with ghosts.

"Sun, sun, sun. Here it comes!" The mockery continued.

The Scout whacked the machine again. "Shut. The. Frick. Up!"

The Brits ignored him. "Sun, sun, sun. Here it—"

**WHAM!**

The Scout leapt three feet in the air. The tip of an axe blade was protruding through the wall. It tore a nasty gouge into the wooden supports, knocking the record player onto the ground. New sounds burst through the wound. Screeching. Chittering. Very enthusiastic mumbling. Now that noise was familiar. When the axe was pulled back, the Scout could see who caused the damage. There was a friendly face. Mask. Whatever.

"Pyro! Cripes, man. Ya scare the crap oudda a guy, you know?" The Scout's mouth went off at double speed. "What are you doin' over—holy crap, what is dat?"

They were like something out of a cheap sci-fi movie. Not the ones with alien gals who looked exactly like human dames, or the ones with monster that had zippers in the back. Like the ones where the actors were fighting huge versions of insects or lizards or whatever. Only, they weren't rear-projected onto another screen. God, they were hairy. Not huge, but at least four feet tall. Fast. Had nasty fangs. Eight spindly legs. And they were all going after the Pyro.

Worst of all, the Administrator hadn't even been decent enough to give him a flamethrower. She could be such a bitch.

"Hang on, bud! I'll be right der!" The Scout started searching for a way through the wall. Was it a secret room, or was he that dumb and didn't see a door? He ran up and down the left side of the attic, looking for anything that could let him enter. The screeching and skittering went on as the Pyro continued his struggle. There were several screams and thumps as the Scout hunted, the record player skipping on the same lyrics over and over again. The Scout cussed. What the hell wasn't he seeing?

Oh! There! It was an old china cabinet, the only piece of furniture big enough to hide anything like a door. The Scout hopped over to it and started pushing. It was like trying to tip a cow. Plates rattled and clanked as he continued, his body sliding closer to the ground as he used his legs to force the cabinet aside. Thumping echoed from the other side. A scream pierced through the air as the Pyro struck one of the creatures down. The Scout gave one final push, knocking the cabinet onto its side and breaking century's old antiques with it. Bingo! A door!

The Scout burst into the next room. "I'm he—gaah!"

There were six spiders left alive. The Pyro managed to kill two on his own. One was split down the middle, almost like the Medic had dissected it. The second dead one was missing half of its limbs. Those that remained were frenzied. They had pinned the Pyro against the wall that joined the two rooms. He was tangled in gobs of silk, most of the strands thicker than sport weight yarn. He also happened to have fangs lodged into his stomach, a spider feasting on his internal juices.

The Scout had been too late. Now, he had hundreds of hungry eyes focused on him. On the positive side, the Pyro would revive in about a minute. On the negative side, he had six fricken' spiders that wanted to eat him up. Just because he could come back from the dead didn't mean that the Scout wanted to die in the first place. Crap in a hat. Now he knew what a fly felt like.

The cluster of mutant spiders lunged at him.

* * *

><p>Miss Pauling stepped out of the kitchen, her pistol at the ready. Everything was dim. She took her time, watching to the left and the right. Nothing out of place. She sighed, then pressed out. She didn't know quite what to expect, but she thought she would see something. Anything. Then again, that was the nature of a haunted house. Half the time, there would be something horrible. As for the other half, nothing. This just must have been one of those down times.<p>

She moved to her right, keeping as quiet as possible. No need to attract any monsters. Her goal was to work around the first floor of the manor, visiting every room on her way. She had to find somebody. The first door she came to was a dud. It led her back into the dining room. The chairs had returned to their upright position, the trap reset. She wondered how it had been set off in the first place. Maybe it was networked to some hidden timer that the Administrator had set up. If she could figure out how to set it off again, maybe she could be teleported to one of the boys.

Or straight into a trap.

Miss Pauling sighed, continuing her journey. Everything was so quiet. Before, she thought she'd heard moaning and some song in the air. Both were gone now. The most interruption she heard was a high-pitched cry from coyotes roaming in the barns outside. Unless that was coming from the cemetery. The thought gave her chills. No, that didn't make sense. Ghosts? What a childish thought.

She pushed open the next door, laughing to herself. The Administrator was good at psychological threats. She already had Miss Pauling scared, and the assistant hadn't even seen—

Her eyes widened. What was that?

She knew what the room was. It was devoid of furniture, save for an elevated shell where a band would play and chairs lining the walls. The outward facing wall had a series of glass panes that stretched across its entire length, revealing the dark, stormy rage billowing outside. It was a ballroom. What that was in the center of the ballroom was another question entirely.

It looked humanoid, but certainly not human. The thing was too tall. It would have towered even over the Heavy. The creature's skin had a dusty rose tint to it, mottled here and there with purple bruises. It didn't look like it fit the monster, hanging in loose, bloated clumps off its frame. It was like somebody's poor attempt at creating their own Frankenstein's monster. It was cut apart, stitched together at random spots. Some of its fingers were fleshy, others skeletal. Even its clothes looked jerry-rigged, half well pressed and half shredded.

The worst thing about the monster was its face. Its creator had done it no great service. The monster's eyes were rolled up to the ceiling, dark pupils unable to focus on anything. Its nose was smashed upwards like a pug's. It had no ears, just exposed drums on the sides of its head. Even that wasn't horrible compared to the gaping, loose flesh that was supposed to be its mouth. There was no jaw bone to hold it in place, no teeth to pierce flesh. Just an empty, swollen void into rotting organs.

Maybe Miss Pauling should have run away. Screamed for help. Something else. She resisted the urge to do these things. That wasn't going to help her. What was useful was what she had in her hands and strapped to her thighs. She kicked the door aside, drawing the attention of the monster. Even if it couldn't see her, it could hear quite well. It gave her a droopy, wide grin. Then a howl. She steeled herself, raising the gun as the creature plowed straight at her.

She unloaded the whole damn pistol clip into the patchwork person. She didn't have a hundred percent accuracy, but the shots that she landed made good work. Two of the rounds pierced the googly eyes, another one striking the creature in the throat. It made thick, warbled screams as blood came up its gaping neck hole. With little room left between her and the creature, she leapt into the room and side-stepped its charge. The monster crashed into the doorframe, shrieking with pain from the impact.

Miss Pauling grabbed the meat cleaver, exchanging places with the pistol. If there was one thing she learned from watching her men, it was how to deal with an opponent with their backs turned towards her. She drove the cleaver into the creature's spine. It screamed at the top of its lungs. Burying any sympathy she could have for the monster, Miss Pauling withdrew her blade and stabbed once more. Again. Again. The creature kept trying to turn around and find her, but she hounded its heels. When it collapsed on the ground, she continued her attack. Within three more stabs, the creature stopped crying. It lay still at her feet.

She had no time to pity it. If this thing was around here, that had to mean a key card was nearby. Or maybe it had one on it. She rummaged through its pockets, finding nothing there. It was when she traced over its bulging stomach that she felt something out of place. There was a series of stitches in its skin, the tissue folded over something hard. Ugh. The card was sewn into its body.

If she had time to throw up, maybe Miss Pauling would have. She calmed herself down, then cut the stitches open. Digging inside of the monster was as foul as sticking her hands into warm sewage. It helped if she thought of it as pulling the guts out of a turkey. A chicken. She laughed to herself—what was the phrase the Spy always used? A Cornish Game Hen. With a little dexterity, she grabbed the card between her thumb and pointer finger. She yanked it out, wiping the monster's blood off on its shirt. One down, nine to go.

Miss Pauling smiled. That hadn't been too hard. Then she looked up. Oh, boy. Her fight with the creature had been too noisy. She found herself staring into the cold, dead eyes of a few zombie cavalrymen. Where had they come from? She backed away from the door, switching back to her pistol. How many of them were there? Five? Ten? Thirty?

She glanced outside for a moment. The storm was in violent throws now. The Material Emancipation Grill was in full effect, surrounding the entire manor with an eerie cyan glow. Could she make it to the barns in time? Miss Pauling turned her attention to the zombies. Those that weren't feasting on the fallen creature were now watching her. It was only a matter of seconds until they pounced.

Miss Pauling drew her gun and pointed at the window.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

You know, I do like games like Amnesia: The Dark Descent, Nanashi no Game, and Clock Tower. I do. (Especially Nanashi no Game. I would be dumb enough to play a haunted video game.) But, as a hot-blooded American, I suffer from the delusion that every problem with homicidal monsters or maniacs can be solved with a gun. And if that doesn't work, then use more gun. You know what I mean? That's just my opinion, though.

I woke up yesterday with "Here Comes the Sun" stuck in my head. So, that's why you all had to suffer.

Hmm. Probably should check on the Heavy and the Demoman. I was going to get to them this chapter, but I was pushing 3,000 words. I try to keep chapters between 2,000-3,000 words. Paint a lot, but not so much that people get cross eyed.

I swear to God, I will have more dialogue eventually.


	4. Sweet Home

Ludmila was crying again.

Well, it wasn't actually her. She was dead. Had been for a long time. But the way that howl carried through the stormy night, the way it pierced everything—it reminded the Heavy of her, the sweet little Slavic girl with twin braids. Her pale face. Those cheekbones, more and more prominent as she wasted away. There were many dark days before his arrival in America, most of which he had left behind. Only the Medic knew some of his stories, and in turn, it was the Heavy who knew the German's deepest secrets. Even then, he'd only mentioned her in passing.

The Heavy rebuked the howl. "Quiet!"

The mewling disappeared in the thick rain. The Heavy found himself in a barn, sitting in a molding hayloft. It was cold and wet, but it was better than being in the storm. He had been waiting for a time when the rain was slow so he could trek to the manor. The weather only got worse. That crying, too. She must be getting closer. It. Whatever that was.

The Heavy squinted his eyes. The lightning did little to light the path to the manor. Blue light flashed off water and mud, the peaks and troughs illuminated with an eerie glow. Skeletal trees and brambles jutted upwards at odd angles like spears. He thought he saw something resting in one of the bushes for a moment, something with bristling fur, but the illusion passed. The Heavy scowled, a familiar feeling creeping through his cheeks. He almost never feared his enemies. It was the anticipation that would kill him first.

**Bang!**

A new noise. The Heavy surveyed the stormy night again, trying to find where the sound came from. A small shadow bolted across the shining mud. It slipped once, stumbling on the slick surface. The shadow became clearer as it approached the Heavy's sanctuary. Petite. Feminine. Miss Pauling. Quickly following her was a clot of unusual shadows, all shifting and squirming in an ungainly way as it sought to swallow her up. As the blot broke ranks, he could see tattered uniforms and rotting limbs. The hair on his arms went on point.

The Heavy bellowed at Miss Pauling. "Podroogа! This way!"

If his call hadn't gotten Miss Pauling's attention, his next move did. It was to his joy that the Administrator had left him with his greatest partner. As the barrel spun up, the minigun hummed with a sound as lovely and unique as the melody from any songstress. It rumbled and purred at his touch. Rounds flew from the minigun's lips, the bullets carving a white-hot line in the dark storm. Fetid organs and thick blood burst from the hoard, the explosions of bullets striking flesh like scarlet stars. Sasha was beautiful. She made such wonderful art.

It wasn't hard for Miss Pauling to find the roaring, elated Russian. She ducked into the barn where he stood, quick to climb up into the hayloft. Some may have found his enthusiasm a little off-putting, but it was hard not to crack a smile with the way he bellowed Slavic songs as he mowed the zombie hoard down. She helped him clean off the last of the zombies, popping the heads off stragglers. For as numerous as they were, the zombies went down easily.

The Heavy sat Sasha down gently. He waited for Miss Pauling to withdraw her revolver before wrapping her in a huge bear-hug. "Little woman is okay!"

Perhaps Miss Pauling would have hugged him back if she had any feeling in her arms. Or could have wrapped her arms around him. Or was on the ground. She waited for him to place her back down before speaking. "Yes. Well. Thanks to you, of course."

"Nothing you could not have handled, if you had Sasha as your weapon." He gave the minigun a loving pat. "Tell me—Have you seen others?"

Miss Pauling shook her head. "Before I was chased out here, I killed another…well, some kind of monster." She produced the key card she procured from the patchwork person. "I found this sewn into its skin."

The Heavy narrowed his eyes. "Is unprofessional. Doctor would not leave such things in patients."

"I suppose one of those creatures might have another one," Miss Pauling said.

"Ah. Then, we will search them." The Heavy frowned. "Oh. What if Sasha shot card?"

Miss Pauling grimaced. She hadn't thought of that. "Let's hope we're lucky, then."

The duo climbed down the ladder. Sorting through the zombie corpses was a mess. It was bad enough that the Heavy had reduced them to a consistency as thick as beef stew. The rain and the mud did little to help the situation. Dark thoughts cooked in Miss Pauling's brain. What the hell good was this doing her? Why did the Administrator think that sorting through guts was going to help her in any way?

The Heavy kept a grim face as he sorted through the zombie pile. He had a pretty slick system in place. After searching one body chunk for any card-like objects, he would throw it to an ever-growing rejection heap. Miss Pauling wondered how he managed to do it. She was barely keeping her lunch down doing this. Maybe having his teammates and foes constantly reduced to giblets was numbing him. Being hit in the face with spleens on a routine basis tends to change one's opinion about the human body. Perhaps hanging around that Medic had morphed him. She'd watched the Russian keep awake during his own open-heart surgery. If anything was bothering him, it was the mud and the rain. That was eating away at her, too. She shivered, not entirely sure if it was out of revulsion or coldness.

"Da!" The Heavy dug his hands into the uniform shirt of one cavalryman. He pulled out a keycard, mostly in one piece. The edge had been nicked by one of Sasha's bullets, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. He wiped the soldier's blood off of it and passed it to Miss Pauling. She smiled. Two down. Perhaps this wasn't going to take as long as she thought.

Then she heard that awful cry.

* * *

><p>Given the circumstances, the Demoman may have taken the most logical step out of the entire team. He hit the booze hard. He'd come to in the cellar with nothing more than a shield and a note. Well, that, and centuries-old wine stored in huge barrels flanking him. Maybe it was a little hazardous to drink, but he didn't care. It was alcohol. He was alone. He needed some of that sweet, sweet liquid courage.<p>

The Administrator's note said that the key-card protected generator for the Material Emancipation Grill was down here. Damned if he knew what she was talking about. All he saw was dozens of rows of barrels. The Manns kept a plentiful stock. He wondered if he could sweet-talk the Administrator into taking some of the barrels with him when they left. If they left.

In his drunkenness, the Demoman began to babble to himself. "Smarmy misses thinks she can ge' away with this. I won't stand it. I won't." He stumbled into a wall, muttering and cursing as he wandered the cellar without purpose. "I am only paid ta handle killen' other humans. Thassit. Didn't sign up for no stinken' All Hallow's Eve witchy-craft exercise-ism. Big bossy lassie and her big bossy—"

"Heads."

The Demoman's head jerked up. "Wassat?"

The cellar voice answered him back. "Heads. Heads."

Tavish brushed his hand across his nose. Now there were other people down here. Good. He didn't want to be alone, anyway. He wobbled towards where he heard the voice coming from. This cellar wasn't so big. It had to be easy to find another human down here, even if he couldn't find that key-card system.

"Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads." The voice was starting to chant. It kept a consistent tempo, doubling the speed of its words from quarters to eighths. "Headsheads. Headsheads. Headsheads. Headsheads."

"Goddamnit, you are 'n annoying person beastie type thing." The Demoman turned around a shelf, staring a pile of rubble. It was mostly broken brick-a-brack. Half a table, a couple of chairs, an empty wine barrel. The entire mess was coated with spider webs. The tiny creatures scuttled off in all directions. Lodged in the middle of that was a long, wooden pole with a leather grip. It was a strange mess, considering how clean the rest of the manor appeared to be.

The voice sounded like it was coming from the pile. It was going in sixteenths now. "Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads. Headsheadsheadsheads."

That pole seemed out of place. The Demoman placed a hand on it. The wooden handle trembled, shaking like a frightened mouse. Tavish smiled, giving the pole a good tug. It was pretty well lodged in the rubble. He placed a foot against some of the garbage, pulling once again. There was a creaking sound, and then scratching as the pole gave way. All the while, the chanting increased in speed, going from thirty-secondths to sixty-fourths. He could barely recognize the words, but he knew what the voice was saying.

With one last yank, the pole dislodged from the rubble. The Demoman stumbled backwards, knocking over a priceless wine barrel. After he collected his wits, he gave the pole a look. His eyes widened. This wasn't just a talking stick. Attached to the front of the object was a heavy axe head. The whole of the head was half the size of the pole, the blade tip chipped and dull. The back of it had a chunk of it missing. The damage looked like a crooked smile. This axe was wicked. Pure evil.

"What the 'ell?" The Demoman asked.

The axe answered. "HEADS!"

Tavish dropped the axe and ran. He'd had enough booze for a while.

* * *

><p>Well, this was awkward.<p>

Neither the vampire woman nor the Spy knew what to do next. She had killed him two times already. Drained him dry both times. Now she was as sick as a gluttonous, thieving kid in a candy store. Considering the volume of blood she must have drained, the Spy was surprised she wasn't regurgitating. Did vampires regurgitate? There was a thought the Spy had never had.

He did what any gentleman would have done in his situation, sitting in a bed with a strange, sick vampire woman. He offered her a cigarette. Surprisingly enough, she took it.

"Listen, mon mort-vivant. I believe we can reach a deal." The Spy lit the end of her cigarette before starting one of his own. "Let's not waste time, no? I've got a life to live, and so do you. Relatively speaking."

The vampire woman nodded, but made no sound. She looked queasy. The Spy shifted slightly, just enough to get out of the way of any potential projectile vomit. No reason to wreck this suit any more than it already was.

The Spy continued his suggestion. "I say we call a truce. All I need from you is a card. A key card, to be precise. You have one, do you not?"

Again, more nodding. The vampire reached into her bosom, withdrawing the item in question from deep within her dress. Goodness. The Spy had seen the same trick done with other women as ample as her, but it was the first time he'd seen an undead woman do it. He should have expected that.

"Zat is it. Now, if I may." The Spy reached for the card, but the vampire balked. He lifted an eyebrow. "Well? Why ze hesitation?"

He was surprised again when the quiet vampire began speaking in a Southern accent thicker than the Engineer's. "That'd be cheaten', wouldn't it?"

"It is only cheating if it is a game. Zis is an exercise. Come, now." He tried plucking the card from the vampire's hands, but she retracted again. The Spy gave a sigh. This was taking more work than just fighting her.

"Well, you'll have to pardon me, but I can't just let you take it from me, darlin'. That'd be voiding the terms of mah employment," the vampire said.

The Spy shook his head. Employment? Where in the hell did one hire vampire assassins? The Administrator had her connections to a myriad of strange corporations, but this was beyond the realms of reality. He took an angry puff from his cigarette. "Then what do you intend to do? Kill me? It's quite clear that you cannot."

The vampire scrunched her eyebrows at him. "How d'ya keep comin' back, anyways? Doesn't seem fair to me. All ya have to do is kill me once! That's the only life I've got!"

"Precisely, mon mort-vivant! Think for a moment." The Spy smiled, finally getting some leverage in his argument. "You are a fair mademoiselle. You have charming features. Surely, you can find better work than killing humans. At least, I can think of one job you would be better suited for."

The vampire blushed, probably only because she had a generous amount of the Spy's blood running through her. "Oh? What career d'ya think I'd be better for?"

The Spy grinned from ear to ear. The deal was almost sealed. He leaned over to her ear, whispering dark thoughts into her brain. She giggled from time to time, amused with each and every one. He was intrigued, too. To think he could be this close to a vampire and not be sucked lifeless. If he hadn't had someone else on his mind, he might have given her a quick go. It wasn't every day one had the opportunity to be with a vampire. Still, honor dictated that he would have to let her be. C'est la vie.

"And just where d'ya think I'd be able to do all of those things?" the vampire woman asked.

"I will give you one place to start." The Spy clasped the hand of the vampire, sliding the key card from her palm to his. "Zere is a charming little home in Chicago. I visited it, but just once. Thirteen-forty North State Parkway. You will know when you have arrived. Ze front lawn will be full of bunnies."

The vampire woman smiled. "Thanks, darlin'. I needed a new life."

The Spy took another drag, content with his work. "Don't we all?"

She gave him one last smirk before she disappeared in a misty burst. A tiny bat appeared out of the smoke. He got off the bed, opening the bedroom window for the vampire woman. She squeaked once, then took off at mach speeds into the night. He found himself smiling, just a touch envious. Too bad that respawn generator took care of any vampirification he might have undergone. Flying seemed much more efficient than riding around in trains and decrepit vans.

He gave the key card an amused twirl. That wasn't so hard.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

I was stagnated on this for quite some time. I knew I wanted to discuss the Heavy and the Demoman, but I didn't know what to do with the third part. I think I resolved that well. Pro-tip: don't be searching for Thirteen-forty North State Parkway on a public computer.

Ludmila was the name of a scrapped weapon for the Heavy. So, that's where that came from, if you did not know. I roughly translated "podrooga" out of a Russian term for a female friend. I'm not sure if that's accurate, but that's what I've got.

That's all I've got. Let me know what's on your mind and whether or not it is Georgia.


	5. Scooby Shuffle

A huge, black shadow leapt out of the brambles. It landed on the Heavy, toppling the obese man like he was nothing more than a stack of pillows. Miss Pauling jumped backwards. She raised her pistol, her sight jittery as she tried to find a clear shot. It was like watching two bears attempt to strangle each other. She fired two shots, the rounds just skirting across thick, matted fur. The third pull was empty.

Crap.

"Get to—" The Heavy began, but the beast tore at him. He bellowed with a roar deeper than any antagonized bull. He was bleeding from his side, the injury spilling blood into mud and water. With a sharp crack, he struck the creature across the face. That when Miss Pauling saw bright teeth flash in the moonlight, sharp and lupine. Her skin crawled.

The Heavy barked at her once more. "Barn! Now!"

While Miss Pauling was obligated to follow her employer's orders, she did not have to listen to the burly man's commands. Maybe that would have been wiser, considering the bulk of that beast attacking the Heavy. It wouldn't be fair to abandon him to it. Miss Pauling retrieved the meat cleaver, waiting for the right moment to attack. The beast was driving the Heavy to the ground, gnashing teeth into flesh. He howled again, then snapped the creature into the wall. It gave a sharp whine, leaping back onto the Russian, its spine left bare and gashed.

Miss Pauling took a sharp slice across the beast's back. Coarse, black hair and red flesh tore from the monster, following the crisp line. The creature turned towards her, its face full of hunger and terror. Its breath was like hot steam in the cool night air, billowing like smoke. Its teeth and tongue were bright red, freshly slathered with the Heavy's blood. Her heart thudded in her chest. The beast sensed her hesitation. With one keen slash, it knocked her to the ground, spilling her cleaver out of reach. It jumped upon her, jaws reaching for her throat.

"Raaaaargh!" The Heavy threw his entire mass into the beast. He tackled it, landing with a splash of thick mud to the left of Miss Pauling. He punched it again and again, swearing foul Russian terms. She did not understand much of it, but she could pick up bits and pieces of it. The words she recognized were "child", "dead", and "wolf." Considering the hollering and ferocity of the Heavy's attacks, perhaps it was best that she did not know what other words he was speaking.

Miss Pauling finally took the Heavy's advice. She crawled back to the barn, her wounds hot. The scratch wasn't deep, not until the end of the injury. There, the monster had dug its claws into her left shoulder. She stumbled around the barn, trying to find anything to hold the bleeding back. The din outside grew louder, thunder and howling punctuating every flash of lightning. She felt like a coward for leaving the Russian out there.

It was with luck that she found fresh cloth towards the back of the barn, in what was once a stall for cattle. It was lying across some kind of machinery. There were no oil spots on it, so it would work as well as any bandage. She tore a chunk off of it, wrapping it around her chest and shoulder. Not fashionable, and certainly not as good as the Medic would have done, but it was slowing the bleeding. She grabbed the rest of the cloth away from the machinery, knowing the Heavy would need it, too.

That was when Miss Pauling came face to face with Radigan Conagher's fourth sentry prototype.

The robot must have been in standby. Now, with a new creature poking around in its barn, it was quite active. To give it credit, the machine was a polite piece of work. It gave her a fair warning. "You are unauthorized. You have twenty seconds to vacate the area."

"What?" Maybe it was the shock of blood loss setting in, but she was surprised to find it talked. It had no mouth to speak of. It was like the Engineer's third-level sentry, adorned with two rotating turrets and a missile launcher on the top of its crown. The striking difference between the sentry and this machine was the domed central piece, speckled with small lights and welded chips beneath the glossy top. The robot lurched upward, supported by two thick, three-toed feet and massive legs. It moved with an awkward gait, pushing towards Miss Pauling.

The barrels began to hum. "You have fifteen seconds to comply."

Miss Pauling ran. She'd have better luck with the wolf outside. As she skidded outside in the mud, she heard the robot clop forward. Oh, good. It was following her. She stumbled towards the Heavy, pulling him away from his struggle. He'd done a great number on the werewolf. It was barely moving, lying on its side and panting with shuddering ribs. The Heavy was in no better shape, crouched in the muck and keeping a hand pressed against his side.

"We have got to run!" Miss Pauling yanked the Heavy's right arm, but he was not moving. He looked up at her, then at the clanking monstrosity approaching them. There was fear in his eyes, to be sure, but there was something else. Resolve.

The robot's pleasant tone echoed, even in the cacophony of the storm. "You have ten seconds to comply."

The Heavy reached for Sasha, pushing Miss Pauling aside. He lifted the unwieldy instrument, now singing with the same grace as before. Was he nuts? He had to be running low on ammunition. He growled at her, giving her one last command. "House! Now!"

She was half way back to the manor before both machine and man opened fire.

* * *

><p>To many, the Pyro was passionate about only one thing—fire. Perhaps that was his own fault that his teammates didn't know him any better. He took showers when no one else did, ate at weird times. Spent little to no interaction with his comrades in any fashion that would expose who or what he was. Sure, he watched television, played games, and killed enemies with them, but that didn't say much about the Pyro as a person. Still, the Pyro was human, deep beneath the flame-retardant suit, skin, flesh, and bone.<p>

Sure, dying was awful. But so was coming back to life.

It was bad enough that some greedy spider still had its mandibles lodged in his stomach. The Scout's screams were worse. The little fellow managed to bash the matter out of one of the spider's heads, painting the attic walls in greasy blood. That left four dedicated to ending his life, not counting the one draining the Pyro. They were doing a fair job of it, too. The boy had been corralled into one corner, twisting himself in the thick webbing that clotted the attic. A few had splattered him with fresh, hot silk, welding him into the corner. It was only a matter of seconds until they would have another warm meal.

The Pyro wasn't about to let them dine. "Gef awfwaif fuh fem, muddahuckas!"

He started with the arachnid munching on him. The Pyro wrenched his left boot free from the silk wrapping his body, lifting it level to the spider's face. He kicked twice against its side, ripping the spider loose from him. When he'd earned just enough space, he pulled his axe from where it was wedged in the wall. He gave one vertical swing, cleaving the head of his tormentor. A mix of his foe's blood and his own ran into the ground, dripping through the floor boards.

That got the cluster's attention. Three of them spun towards him, the fourth's fangs now embedded in the Scout's skin. The boy was pale, his cursing becoming less brash as the life was sucked out of him. That bastard became target number one. He hacked his way through the cluster, downing one with a horizontal strike that ripped it in twain. The feasting spider never even gave him so much as a look as the Pyro hacked into it. His first strike severed the spider's backside, fresh ooze gushing every which way. The Pyro chopped once more, splitting the bastard down the middle. That was more satisfying than it should have been.

Grabbing the dead spider's mandibles, he yanked the offending front half out of the Scout. He was gray, still. The Pyro snarled. He had little time to mourn as the last two spiders struck at him. One was on his back, trying to pin him down. The other nipped at his heels. Both bit through the suit, mandibles lodging in his skin. A familiar numbness spread through him as warmth drained out. He gave one last swing at the monster chomping at his leg, decapitating that with a sharp cleave. The other one pulled him down, now firmly lodged in his back.

Just because the Pyro had died once already didn't mean he wanted to die again.

"Get offa him, ya freakin' bug!"

There was a squeal and a thud as the freshly revived Scout kicked the spider aside. He didn't have as much strength as the Pyro, but he was fast wriggling free of the silk sprayed around him. The Bostonian gave the Pyro a sharp command. "Kill that thing, would ya?"

No need to tell the Pyro twice. He grabbed his axe, the tool heavy as fatigue overtook his arms. He still had one last swing left in him, though. The Pyro turned to the last spider, the creature flailing every leg as it tried to get off its back. Beneath the Pyro's gas mask, there was a crooked smile. He raised his axe one more time and let it fall. The splash of blood and silk signaled his victory.

"Oh, oh man. Freakin' gross." The Scout struggled once more, throwing himself out of the webbing. The Pyro caught him, bringing the wobbling teenager back onto his feet. The Scout gave him a wide grin. "Man, good job! Don't see why ya need that flame thrower around. You're a goddamn lumberjack!"

The Pyro gave him a tired thumbs-up. "Rad ou fing zo."

The Scout patted the Pyro on the back. "Take ten, huh? I'm gonna go find dat fricken' key card. The Administrator said it'd be around here somewhere, right? Wonder if she put it up here before the freakin' spiders were here or not. They probably ran away from her. Am I right?"

The Pyro nodded, glad to be given a break. Those bites stung something awful. He examined the wound to his stomach. The bites were red, swollen. He'd probably have to have the Medic take a look at them. He hated going to the Medic, mostly because it violated his never nude in company policy.

The Pyro lay against the wooden walls, watching the Scout tear through the remains of the spiders' nest. He cussed every few seconds, finding something new and disgusting to complain about. "Oh, God. Don't tell me that's spider crap. Ah, Christ! Are those eggs? Aggh! I think that one's moving!" The boy then went into a swatting fit with his baseball bat. The Pyro found himself laughing, which drew a dark glare from the Bostonian.

"It's not funny, ya jerk. I'm gonna have nightmares for life." He continued digging through the mess. "Swear to God, if I see another bug in my life, I'm gonna—Hey!"

The Scout knelt in a clot of spider silk. With a little fishing and his tongue stuck out the side of his face, he found the object that drew his interest. He gave a quick tug, pulling strands off it and blowing debris away. It was a key card. The Pyro gave him a brief round of clapping, then stood up. No reason to be sitting up here anymore.

The Scout smiled. "So, whaddya say, Mumbles? Wanna go find those other losers?"

* * *

><p>"Well, now. Can't say I've ever seen something like that."<p>

The Engineer tapped on the statue, not sure what to think of it. It looked like Australium, but it was the wrong consistency. The metal felt fleshy, pliable. Then there was the question of why somebody would make an Australium statue in the first place. It was a costly metal. A brick of the stuff could buy enough ICBMs to start a second Cuban Missile Crisis. That wasn't the part that confused the Engineer the most. He couldn't think of a logical reason for it to look like the Medic.

The Soldier scowled. "So? What is it?"

The Engineer shook his head. "I just don't know."

"Really, laborer. I thought you had an explanation for everything."

Both the Engineer and the Soldier looked up. The Spy sauntered out of the hallway behind them, the orange glow of a lit cigarette giving him away in the dark corridor. He looked rather smug, even for himself. The Frenchman tapped the statue on the nose. He scoffed at it, giving a quick snort. "How tacky."

"Glad to see another man join our ranks. What's the situation, Frenchie?" The Soldier crossed his arms, studying their new charge with a keen eye. "And what's with all that blood on your suit collar?"

The Spy glared back, rubbing at an invisible wound on his neck. "That's none of your concern. However, I did manage to procure one of zese." His hand left his sensitive spot, reaching into his pockets. A grin sparked on the Soldier's face as the Spy produced his hard-earned key card. The brash American snatched it from his fingers, studying it with intense glee and a boisterous laugh.

"Good work, Javert! Real slick." The Soldier gave him two pats on the shoulder, then passed the card back.

The Spy shook his head. He wasn't sure where the American had fetched that name. He turned his attention to the Engineer. "What resources do we have?"

"So far? 'Fraid not much. I've got a pistol, and the Soldier's got a frying pan. Also found some blueprints." The Engineer fetched the instructions from his back pocket. He unrolled them, sharing their contents with the Spy. "Hopin' you have your sappers."

The Spy huffed the last of his cigarette, pinching the end off. "I'm afraid not at the moment. Tell me—have you or the Soldier gone back to our suites? It's possible ze Administrator left supplies zere."

The Soldier's eyes lit up. "That's brilliant! We fortify the areas with our rations, then begin sweeping the manor. I like the way you're thinking tonight, frog!" He grabbed the notepad with his crudely drawn map, adding the hallway, the staircase, and the lobby downstairs to his map. "Let's see. Assuming the suites are somewhere around here, we'll need to drag roughly three couches and a pool table to block off the hallway. Good!"

"Well, that's assumin' that there ain't no creepy crawlies that can get on the ceilin'."

All three men glanced over to find the Scout and the Pyro had joined their ranks. Both of them had inflamed wounds. They looked like mosquito bites. More shockingly, the Pyro's suit had been damaged. It looked like the first time his skin had seen the light of day in years.

"String bean! Glad to see you and ol' Smokey are doin' all right." The Engineer gave them both a warm smile. "Looks like you're a little rough for wear, though."

"Damn straight. But look what we got!" The Scout pulled their collected key card out of his pocket, beaming with pride.

The Spy laughed, wagging his card at the boy. "Oh, junior. One step too slow, as usual!" The Scout blew a raspberry at him, drawing more cackling and snorting from the Frenchman.

"This is fantastic!" The Soldier paced around his troops, nearly foaming with glee. "Two cards? Half of our entire troop? We've barely just begun, too! We'll be out of here before the bars close! Keep this up, men, and I will personally buy each and everyone one of you a round of nachos and tequila! There is nothing that's going to stop—"

The Soldier's speech died as soon as the front doors swung open. Bright lightning spilled into the lobby, flashing across the floors in a white blast. Sharp thunder rolled afterwards. A woman crept into the house, trembling from the rain and blood loss. She slipped on the wet floors, clutching to the front door as her knees buckled. She fought to keep her cool composure, but it was clear that she was fraying. The team rushed to her as she collapsed onto her hands, the rain continuing to spill over them all.

The Spy propped the woman up as the Engineer examined her bandaged wound. "Miss Pauling, darlin', what happened?"

Miss Pauling grabbed the Texan's shoulder, a fresh fire throwing her back into motion. "No time. We need to run."

The Soldier raised his frying pan. "I got this."

"Are you insane? We have got to keep moving!" Miss Pauling tried to snap the Midwesterner out of his crazed bravado. "If it wasn't for the Heavy, I'd—"

The Scout raised his eyebrows. "You found the butterball? All right!"

Miss Pauling drew herself upright, finding what little composure she had remaining. "He bought me enough time to get to the house. That machine is still following me!"

Both the Engineer and the Spy dropped their jaws. The Frenchman swore, "Merde! Don't tell me you found—"

**Boom!**

The rocket that tore through the front door answered the Spy's question. It landed at the top of the stairwell, shredding most of the structure and missing the odd Medic statue by a few meters. The stairwell was burning slightly, to the Pyro's interest and the rest of the team's dismay. They all caught a glimpse of that machine, gunmetal gray and shining with thick rain. The Heavy had left his mark upon it, the machine splattered with bullet holes and fleshy tissue.

If there was one thing the Spy knew, it was when to retreat. The Scout and the Pyro were quick on his heels, the Bostonian making a high-pitched shriek as he went. The Engineer balked, frozen with terror and awe. It was a perfect replica of the blueprint. The Soldier was silent as well, but his face was decorated with a wide grin. Just the challenge he was looking for. Miss Pauling pulled on both of their arms, trying to get either one of them to run. She didn't want to find out if the respawn generator would take care of her, but she didn't need to leave another man to his death tonight.

"Come on!" Miss Pauling tried again, wincing as another barrage of rockets soared overhead.

The Soldier snapped his head towards the Engineer. "Escort the lady, would you? I've got a war to fight." He lowered the brim of his helmet, then beat on his chest. With a loud battle cry, he rushed into the courtyard, his frying pan raised high and proud. It would have been impressive if it wasn't downright crazy.

As the robot opened fire, the Engineer came out of his shock. He grabbed Miss Pauling, hauling her away by the wrist. That contraption was fast approaching the house, the vivacious cries of the Soldier disappearing abruptly into the storm. He wound around a corner, a thousand panicked questions flooding his brain. Did that think have heat sensors? How did it see the world? Could they even hide? What was it made out of? Could sappers take that robot out? What was that thing on the—

**Wham!** The Engineer stumbled over the object, flinging both Miss Pauling and him into a room. He grumbled, his chin scuffed from colliding with the floor. What the hell was that? Must have been thicker than an anaconda. He sat up, wiping blood away from his stubble. Then his eyes widened, a quiet gasp escaping his throat. Miss Pauling was just as stunned, sitting in quiet horror.

The duo had fallen into a red jungle.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

I should write the Heavy more. He's somebody I can sorta get. At least, I understand the need to personify inanimate objects. My car's name is Remington, my laptop's name is Bessie, and my Super Nintendo…well, that's a Sasha too. It makes sense. I also sing at inappropriate times and am slightly overweight. So, there's that too.

And the first time I wrote Pyro as a dominant character roll! Huzzah. Although, I'm afraid my Miss Pauling came off a little weak. I'll have to fix that next round.

Why yes, I do like Arrested Development. And Robocop. Why do you ask, audience?

You should find the next chapter amusing. Let me know how you're feeling.


	6. Missed Point

When faced with intruders, the Spy knew the safest place for him in any home. The kitchen, mais oui. He would have a variety of knives available for his use, in various shapes and sizes. He was found of steak knives, when he didn't have his balisong at hand. It would have been more useful to have a set of sappers for that robot, though. Perhaps duct tape for the Scout's whiny mouth.

"Ouch! Geez, would ya let go? Think I'm bruisin'." Frankly, the Scout could outrun the Spy. Since he had no other plan than to run like hell, it didn't hurt to have the Spy drag him around to some predetermined destination. Well, outside of the physical pain, of course.

"Silence, boy." The Spy threw the Scout into the kitchen, then pushed the Pyro in as well. He waited for a moment, watching for their pursuer. Odd. He could hear it, but it was not coming this way. Maybe they had given it the slip. Still, all the same, it would be better to hide out for a few moments.

The Spy paced around the kitchen. He was looking for anything to take the edge off. A cigarette. Alcohol. A steak knife. Anything. He was lucky enough to discover a knife. The Pyro had found a box of matches, but no cigarettes. No alcohol, either. He scowled, trying to think of their next plan. Lord knows that the Scout was no master strategist. If it couldn't be solved by running fast or sloppy aim, then it was impossible. If the Pyro had an idea outside of burning things, he couldn't articulate it. So, that left everything to the Spy.

He was drawing blanks.

The Spy pressed two fingers to his temple. "All right. What do we need to do next?"

"I don't even know what we're supposed ta do right now." The Scout was getting twitchy. He didn't like being forced to stay in place and hide like some French chickens he knew.

The Pyro was no help, either. He was busy trying to force the pantry open. "Ai miffed fuffa. Ai'm baken rumprin do ea."

The Spy rolled his eyes. "Gentlemen—oh, who am I kidding? Boys, listen up. We are in trouble. As far as I can tell, we are ze only productive members of our group tonight. You have a card. I have a card. Ze others have nothing."

The Scout shrugged. "Don't sweat it, Suit. Might as well take a break while we're here."

"Lazy fools." The right side of the Spy's face twitched.

"Look, Frenchie. I don't know what you had to do, but me and my buddy here? We had to kill, like, a dozen large spiders. Like, huge. They probably could have eaten the Heavy and gone out for Chinese." The Scout pantomimed his story like the greatest of fishermen.

A derisive huff escaped the Spy's nose. "Please. I had to deal with a vampire. A creature of cunning and stealth. I had to use my wits first and my weapons second. You wouldn't even know what to do if such a stunning, charming ghoul approached you."

"Yeah, I would. I'd bash them in the face. Can't suck my blood if they don't have teeth." The Scout glanced towards the Pyro. "How's it going?"

The Pyro finally chopped through the door. "Godd id!" He stepped into the pantry, continuing to mumble as he went. "Mam, id reefhs rike a dud guh an hurr."

Both the Spy and the Scout picked their spat back up, ignoring whatever mumbling was coming from the pantry. The Scout was the first to strike back. "So, did ya get turned? Gotta suck blood now?"

"Not in the slightest. How about you?" A devilish grin crossed the Spy's face. "Are you going to start spinning a web? Perhaps you will actually make your bed for once. You know how your lack of cleanliness disappoints your mother."

"Ro, krad! Ris rings roobing!" The Pyro stated. His exclamation went unnoted by both parties, since it did little to further their feud.

The Scout never skipped a beat. "And here we are, talking about my mom again. Do ya ever stop thinking about her, ya creepy pervo?"

"Of course not! Why would I? We are paramours. Perhaps, you will be lucky enough to find a man who cares about you in ze same way I care for your muzza." The Spy grinned from ear to ear, his words slithering and crafty.

That got the Scout hopping. "What are ya implying, ya French frog?"

The Spy let the term slide, driving his insults home. "I am saying that you are, as you Americans would say, a friend of Doro—"

"—Ri! Murlp ri!"

That wasn't how the Spy was intending to finish that sentence. He turned to the pantry. Before he could correct the Pyro, his jaw hit the floor. The Scout did the same, his expression almost identical to the Spy's. The kitchen had not been safe, after all. The thing that slid out of the pantry was like half-settled gelatin, liver colored and thick. There were discolored patches to it, blue lines that wrapped around the ooze like stretch marks. It was awful in the same way that green Jell-O with mandarin oranges is both ugly and disgusting. Instead of little globby fruit pieces, the slime had random junk floating around in it. Plates. Utensils. The Pyro. A real appetite killer.

Even faced with the fast-approaching man-eater that was due to engulf them both in seconds, the Scout couldn't help but stop to think of dozens of movie dates and that trailer's infamous warning about running and not walking.

* * *

><p>Well, the Soldier could have taken that last fight one of many ways.<p>

His battle against the robot wasn't exactly a victory. He wasn't about to call it a failure, though. His frying pan had left a pretty good dent in the robot's chest cavity. It just so happened that the robot had made a few dozen more dents in the Soldier's body. Well, not so much dents. More like holes. But, he was able to confirm that the manor's respawn generator was working. Good enough!

The storm wasn't letting up. The Soldier readjusted his helmet, sliding it to its default position. Now was the time to make his next plan. That robot probably wasn't too far away. He could ambush it a couple dozen more times. No, that wasn't very efficient. He'd have to find a rocket launcher. A shotgun. Something. He snapped his spine in a ninety-degree angle, sitting upright instantly. Well, while he was out here, he could raid the Medic or the Sniper's vans. One of them had to have something with a little more punch. And range! Range would be good. An umbrella wouldn't hurt, either.

"What are you doing out here?"

Good gravy! The Soldier jumped to his feet. He spun on his ankle, brandishing his well-dented frying pan and preparing a terrifying battle cry. He dropped his act as soon as he saw who it was. Just the Commie man bear. "I could be asking you the same question."

The Heavy pointed over his shoulder. "Woke up in barn. Killed moving dead men and drekavac."

"Speak English, Sputnik," the Soldier said.

"Hmm…werewolf. Da, that is it." The Heavy rested his right arm on the Medic's kombi. "And yourself, little man?"

The Soldier marched around the Russian, building up his story. "I came to in the billiard room and converted it for my purposes. After enlisting Texas Toast, both he and I investigated the second floor. We came across Crouton, Smokey Joe, and the boy. Upon our reunion, Miss Pauling ran to me for protection. She was being pursued by a robot. I fought it while our teammates made it to safety."

The Heavy lifted one eyebrow. "Did you kill it?"

"Yes! Well, no. But I hurt it a lot. A little. A smidge." The Soldier scowled. He continued on, not dwelling on it for long. "Frenchie managed to steal a card. The arsonist and City Slicker managed to find one as well. How about yourself?"

The Russian produced a card. It was partially suspended on a ball chain, some blood splashed on the front. "Miss Pauling has two as well."

The Soldier frowned. Sure, it was good that they had found five cards. Half of the work was already done. The part he was disappointed with was the fact that he hadn't got to kill anything yet. At least he'd gotten the opportunity to fight a giant robot. That was something. Still, this whole haunted house event was not any fun, at least not for him.

"Have you seen Doctor?" the Russian asked.

"No. But now that you mention it, we did find a statue on the balcony that looked just like him." The Soldier scratched his stubble, wondering if he'd overlooked something. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen that camping Australian cupcake, either. Or that one-eyed, skirt-twirling Scottish son of a—"

"ARGGGGH!"

A shadow dashed across the courtyard. It crashed with a sharp thwack into the side of a nearby barn. Neither the Soldier nor the Heavy jumped at the sound. Just the Demoman. Not exactly one's worst nightmare. He fell backwards, clutching his skull and gibbering in slurred Gaelic. The Soldier laughed at the sight. That poor Scotchman. Never the less, he went to help him back onto his feet. The Cyclops stank of alcohol.

The Soldier smirked, propping the Demoman against the Medic's van. "Already found the booze?"

"Ya canno' make me go back!" The Demoman grabbed the Soldier by his shirt, giving him a good shake. "There be demons or ghosts or somethin' down there!"

The Russian cocked his head to the side, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

The Scotchman bolted over to the Heavy, his one good eye darting wildly. "There I was, enjoyin' the finest wine I'd ever had. And then it started talking ta me! So, I went to go look at it, and—and—it kept talking!"

Neither the Soldier nor the Heavy knew what to think about the Demoman's nonsensical sentences. The first one made sense. Everything after that had been rubbish. The Soldier asked for clarification. "What was talking?"

"The world's bloody biggest axe, mate! Possessed by Stalin or Beel-zii-bubba or Lucifius or somethin'!" The Demoman buried himself into the Heavy's shoulder, weeping incoherently. He kept babbling on, but the words were lost in the alcoholic wash surrounding the Demoman's mind. The Heavy sighed, not sure what to do. The Soldier was confused, but amused as well. He hid his laughter behind his right fist, trying to figure out a way to get the Demoman to settle down.

"Listen, Cyclops. I've got a plan." The Soldier poked the Demoman in the shoulder, getting him to snap out of his drunken slobbering. "The bear and I are going to investigate a few things. Hunt down a giant robot. Find his German streusel. Stick with us, and I'll guarantee that we'll all be fine, ghosts or no ghosts."

The Demoman cracked a smile. "Oh, yeah?"

The Soldier nodded. He talked to the drunken man like the Demoman was a toddler. "Ask my men. I seek to reward good behavior with alcohol and hunnies. You'd like that, wouldn't you? " He turned his attention to the Russian. "Same goes for you, Commie. Get you some vodka and babushkas."

"It would not be appealing to me." The Heavy shook his head. He knew what the American was getting at, but the difference between what he meant and what he said was about sixty years.

The Soldier cocked an eyebrow and smirked, the rebuke confusing the exchange even more. "I was just kidding about the doc before, Pinko. Didn't think you actually swung that way."

An urge to uppercut the Soldier shot through the Heavy's arms. He let it pass, marching back towards the manor. "Let us go, da?"

The Soldier grumbled. He hated when people ordered him around.

* * *

><p>The distended snarl of roots and stems choked the conservatory. The mass of plants wound towards the ceiling, swallowing everything with a ravenous, feral hunger. Bright, red blossoms burst outward, like poinsettias that drank mutagen. Pots and statues were strangled with vines. Roots splayed across the ground, digging through the floor and tangling in the earth below. Lightning and rain bathed the room in a slick, glowing sheen. The architecture of man served as much purpose for this monstrous garden as an unlocked prison, crumbling and soaked in the barrage of nature.<p>

They should have been running for their lives. That dreadful robot was closing in on them, its body and weapons gouging hunks of plaster out of walls as it forced itself through small passageways. Even with impeding death at their heels, the Engineer balked, his jaw dropped. Miss Pauling could hardly blame him, given the swollen monstrosity engulfing the room. They still needed to run. Even if the Engineer could be revived, she was not sure she had the same capabilities. She did not want to find out the hard way, either.

Miss Pauling pointed towards the back of the room. "Those windows."

There were panes missing from the walls, glass shattered as the plants grew through them. It might be a bit of a messy escape route, but it would have to do. She vaulted over a thick vine, weaving her way through brambles and thorns. When the Engineer did not follow her, she stopped. He'd been paying attention to something else—a blade lodged in the conservatory's door frame. That could be useful. She'd lost her cleaver to the battle with the werewolf near the barns and her pistol was empty. Her optimism sank again as she realized why the Engineer was shocked by its appearance. As he pulled it from the frame, she saw the knife's serrated back and chipped blade, marked with a hole near the hilt. The Sniper's bushwacka.

"Miss Pauling? I'd recommend comin' on ba—" The Engineer started, but was cut short. A missile plowed into the door frame inches above his head. He flinched, clasping onto his hardhat. The robot had found them. There wasn't any easy escape route. It was either through the robot or the plant.

The Engineer sighed. "Dagnabbit."

He was quick to rejoin Miss Pauling. The plants whipped around them, frenzied and panicked. Fear? They had fear? How was that possible? Each stem moved with a mind of its own. Some reeled away from the bushwacka in his hand, others reaching for the invading machine at the door. The robot was not amused with the waving flora, either. It opened fire, turrets chopping flowers into shredded petals. A thick chunk of flower landed in front of the escaping duo. They dived in opposite directions, escaping a bulb and a torrent of collected water.

Miss Pauling was pushed into a tangled set of roots by the splash. They looked like something that belonged to swamp trees, belled outward like bars of a bird cage. Sinewy stems slithered from above, wrapping into the roots and plunging deep below. The entire mass wound upwards, suspending from several bulky stems in the vicinity. Cold electricity jumped through every nerve in her spine. Emerging from the snarl of roots and ivy was a limp, lifeless hand.

"Mister Conagher! Get over here!" She dug into the roots, pulling at the ivy wound around the hand. It was stubborn, slicked with rain and as good at holding tension as rubber. The plant smacked as she tore it apart, red liquid seeping out. Miss Pauling kept tugging away, digging her heels into the floor in a vain attempt to gain traction. Some of the plant had been torn from the inside, the roots scratched and some dead ivy already lying at her feet. The Sniper had tried to dig himself free, but it was quite clear that he couldn't have done so. The ivy was growing through his skin, leeching and consuming his blood. Between it and the roots, he wouldn't have had time to get free before it would drain him. It terrified her to see him so pallid.

There was another explosion of gunfire. Glass shattered as a gargantuan plant snapped at its roots. That damn robot was still up and going. It had taking a serious licking—one of the turrets was knocked off, its remaining metal stump whirling without purpose. The second one was still alive, white fire propelling dozens of rounds across the room. The conservatory was starting to look like someone had cracked open the world's largest spinach can and dumped it all over the place. Miss Pauling hesitated, trying to find the Engineer through the mess.

She almost leapt out of her skin as the Texan dragged himself over. He'd caught a few rounds in his side. Not that the robot had been aiming for him with the large, writhing enemy in its sights. He'd merely been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It hadn't instantly killed him, but he wasn't long for the world of the living. Never the less, he stumbled towards Miss Pauling , crashing at her feet. She stopped her digging, placing pressure on the worst of his wounds. The Engineer shook his head. He took her hands aside, his left hand large enough to hold them both.

"I'll be fine, darlin'." The Engineer gave her a smile, blood on his lips. "Get outside. I'll be there in a minute."

An indignant nerve flared in Miss Pauling's brain. Her cool demeanor burst into flames. Yes, she saw these men die every day. She'd seen some of them die tonight. Watching the Engineer submit to his demise was the last straw. Between the Administrator's deception, the Heavy's murder, the Sniper's captivity, and every single life she had to take, some part of her snapped. When it went, she did not feel terror or anger. There was no grand bravado like the Soldier bore. What she felt was solid, stubborn, unyielding. Sheer determination.

Everyone else was flippant about their deaths, and now, so was Miss Pauling.

She yanked the bushwacka out of the Engineer's grasp. "I'll wait." Instead of bolting for the open window, she returned to work. She pulled the ivy back, slicing cleanly through. It shrunk away from her, the act odd for a life form with no brain. She continued digging into the roots, the plant as solid as a watermelon's hide. Vascular tissue and blood splashed across her, but she didn't feel it. A fire billowed in her torso. She could do this forever.

Crunching metal and snapping plants echoed in Miss Pauling's ears. She didn't care. Let them destroy each other. Less work for her boys. She smiled, burrowing into the roots. Her boys. They belonged as much to her as to the Administrator. She pulled hunks of ivy aside, almost as thickly bound as pumpkin guts. A laugh escaped her before she could catch it, her face hot and red. How very Halloween.

Then she went cold. That laugh hurt. What was—oh. That fire she'd felt in her body wasn't exactly from within her. There was a scarlet star in the lower hem of her shirt. In the front and in the back. Huh. That robot really did have terrible aim. An awful spray. No brains. Funny. She thought being shot would hurt more than that.

Miss Pauling fell forward, collapsing into her work.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

Wrote this chapter backwards. LIKE A BOSS.

Sorry for the delay. I'm trying to get this wrapped up before Halloween, really. I've been distracted by things. You know. Map programming. Work. Hats. These things happen.

What do you think Valve will do for Halloween this year? Hope it'll be super special awesome.


	7. Clear View

There was something on his back.

The Sniper jerked, half from the respawn generator kicking him back to life and half from a paranoia he'd developed about having foreign things on or in his back. Thick, disgusting ooze dribbled down his entire body. Memories of sleeping in the carcasses of animals haunted the edges of his consciousness. He pushed the object off his spine, tossing it forward and out. Out! The Sniper grabbed the edge of the plant, pulling at the sinews still attached to his body. They popped and tore away, the ivy tips leaving swollen, bloody dots along the course they wove. He landed in an awkward sprawl outside of the plant, cold rain reviving his senses. His foot dragged across something hard, but he paid it no attention, pondering in horror at the body that he'd thrown out of the plant.

Miss Pauling.

She was white, save for the splatter of red in her lower right hip. It looked like a bullet had passed clean through her. The Sniper dug through a vest pocket, finding a brown, paisley patterned handkerchief. It wasn't going to be enough, but it was the cleanest cloth he had. His vest and shirts were stained with his blood and various plant fluids. It wasn't going to be enough. He panicked, his sense not entirely present. How had she found him? What shot her?

"Mundy! Duck!"

The Sniper didn't second-guess that command. He leaned down, pressing his entire body against the wound. Scattered bullets sailed overhead, spraying worse than a sawed-off shotgun. Well, that explained Miss Pauling's injury. He looked towards the object shooting those rounds, his jaw hitting the floor. It looked like a half-destroyed bipedal sentry. Insane. Then again, so was the thought of the giant plant attacking it. Both had torn each other apart. Their battle was coming to an end, but it wouldn't be long before one of them turned back to destroying Miss Pauling, the Engineer, and him.

Dell! The Sniper was surprised to find the Engineer by his side, trying to examine Miss Pauling's injury. The Texan hissed. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"Tell me she's in the respawn machine." The question came out more like a demand.

The Engineer stammered. "I—I don't know. I mean, I took one copy of her, when she first started here. I'd think that would do it, but I don't know if the copy made it here."

The Sniper snarled, sharp teeth exposed. "Then let's not piss around." He hoisted Miss Pauling off the ground, dumping her into the Engineer's lap. Without delay, he dug through his left vest pocket, swirling a key ring around his finger and tossing that to the Texan as well. He reached for the hard thing at his feet, finding the handle of his bushwacka. Crazy woman had chopped him out. She'd saved him. Might as well return the favor.

The Australian leapt behind the titanic plant, bolting towards the nearest broken window. The Engineer followed him, not entirely sure what the Sniper was up to. The Sniper took the back of his knife, smashing sharp remains of the shattered glass out of the way. He stepped outside, waving the Engineer through. A missile beat the Texan outside, but it hit too high and too far to the left to be of any concern at the moment.

The duo stumbled down a grassy hill, the Engineer almost landing on his back. That grass was slick, the skies cloudy and dark. He readjusted the grip he had on the woman in his arms. "Could use some details, pardner."

"Get 'er to my van," the Sniper slipped around the front of the house, going much too fast for the short man with his burden. He hopped over to the Medic's van. The Teutonic doctor was going to be furious, but he saw no other option. The Sniper cracked his bushwacka against the kombi's rear passenger window, the glass giving way to the sharp blows. He fumbled with the lock, releasing the doors to the back. It was like finding one of the lost cities of gold. The Australian took as much as he could.

The Engineer was fast in unlocking the Sniper's van. He placed Miss Pauling on the fold-out couch that the Sniper used as a bed. Bounding in behind the Texan, the marksman threw every useful item he could find to the Engineer. The Medic had a mother lode of goodies. A first aid kit, a vial of the doc's miracle gel, a needle, thread, alcohol, peroxide, gauze, bandages. All neatly packaged and ready to go. The Sniper dug through his own materials, tossing a few extra towels over. The Engineer smiled, pleased with the tools the Sniper had raided. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was better than waiting around for the missing Medic.

The Engineer had a little experience with applying this gel to others, but that didn't stop his stomach from rolling as he set to work. He took a towel, propping it below her wound. Some of her blood had seeped into the couch, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be cleaned later. He cracked open the gel bottle, pouring the contents through Miss Pauling's injury. The liquid slid through, foaming and clinging to red tissue. At least it was having a reaction. That looked promising.

Fumbling with another towel, the Engineer wiped some of the gel away. The wound had sealed shut. New skin had grown over it, a pale circle just about the size of a half dollar coin. It almost looked intentional, like a tattoo. That was going to leave a peculiar scar. He was amazed with the results. Clearly, the Medic should have been doing something better with his life. If this solution ever got into the public—

"That'll do?" The Sniper interrupted his thoughts.

"I think so. I can't do much about the blood she's lost, but the wound's taken care of." The Engineer crouched next to her, watching for signs of improvement. She looked pale, but her breathing was steady. "I think she'll make it."

The Australian hunkered down, observing her. "Well, I'm not going anywhere 'till we know."

Maybe the Engineer could have gone back to check on that robot and see if he could find a keycard on it. Perhaps even find the other teammates and tell them what had happened. Really, only one of them needed to stay here to watch her. He didn't want to leave, either. The rest could wait.

She was worth their time.

* * *

><p>"It's quiet. Too quiet."<p>

The Heavy glared at the Soldier. "Is bad line."

The Soldier's eyebrow twitched. Leave it to the pinko to be bossing him around. If anybody was going to be in charge, it was going to be an American. Since neither the Scout nor the Engineer was here to challenge him for leadership rights, that left him as the captain. Not like either of those sissies would fight him for it, anyway. As the de facto leader, that meant he had to tell the Scotsman and the Russian what was what. Now, if he could only figure out what to do next.

"Blimey. What in the hell is that?" The Demoman pointed towards the top of the stairs. There was a sizeable hole blasted out of the stairwell. The Cyclops hadn't met their little robot buddy yet.

"Don't worry about that. It's not all that important. Not until we get guns or bombs or something." The Soldier was looking forward to a second round with the machine, but perhaps on a fairer level. With a rocket launcher. Maybe a football field's length of distance between him and the robot. Perhaps a missile.

Come to think of it, where had that robot gone? The Soldier glanced around the lobby, finding peculiar gouges in the walls to the right. There was a cacophony of noises coming from that direction, too. Turrets. Slamming. A beautiful symphony of war. He should probably go conduct it, but—

"What is dis?"

The Soldier snapped to attention. Damn commie was getting ahead of him. He'd made his way up the blasted-out stairwell, setting up the Medic statue left at the top. The Russian wasn't sure what to make of it. He ran a chunky hand over its surface, holding it in place on the left wrist. The Demoman joined the Heavy's investigation, poking the material and frowning. Jane didn't see what the big deal was. Yeah, the metal was weird. Very soft. Warm. But still, nothing as interesting as a giant killer robot.

The Soldier growled. "If you ladies are done, I'd like to—"

His eyes widened. Sweet scrimping Robert McNamara! He snapped the Demoman and the Heavy towards him, away from the eyes in the hallway. Oh, yeah. The Soldier totally knew what that was in the shadows, crossing her way back into the second floor of the lobby. Couldn't know what the Cyclops was and not a gorgon. Man, that creature was beautiful. He didn't particularly like snakes, but the way those dozens of tiny snakes on her head moved around…

He shook his head, trying to snap his brain out of it. Hypnosis? Never heard of a gorgon with hypnosis. He reached for the Demoman's eye patch, snapping it around his good eye and leaving the empty socket open to the world. The motion was rigid. Dammit, he was turning too fast. He'd have to talk quickly.

"Don't turn around. If either of you've got something sharp, it'd better go to Tavish." The Soldier's tongue was burdened, like it was held down with a nine volt battery. He was going to have to speak shorter. Luckily, the Heavy did have something on him. Looked like a meat cleaver. Maybe that was how he was able to make sandwiches on the battlefield so fast. He slipped it to the Demoman, placing it in his right hand.

The Soldier nodded. He tried stepping forward, but found his legs frozen in place. Crap. Not much time left. He tried turning his head to face the Demoman. His neck was fixed, forcing him to look at an odd angle. At least he could provide some last minute tactics. "On my signal, turn around. Charge and swing."

"A'ight." The Demoman prepared himself.

The Soldier was about finished turning into Australiam. His tongue was immobile. Crap. He could still grunt one last command. The word came out sounding like "Euergh!" Fortunately enough, the Demoman knew what that meant.

Tavish one-eightied on the ball of his right foot. With a mighty cry, he charged into the east side of the stairwell. He crashed into something, the impact sending a shudder through his body. He hadn't landed in anything fleshy. The Demoman buried his knife into the wall, missing whatever Jane had been talking about by a few feet. He struggled with the cleaver, trying to pull it back out. He'd wedged it into the wall, the blade severing wooden molding.

"Where is it?" Tavish asked.

The Soldier couldn't respond. He was frozen solid, Australium through and through. The Heavy sighed, now understanding what the Medic had gone through. How long had he been standing there before his teammates found him? No wonder they didn't know what had happened to him. It wasn't every day that a man was turned to Australium. Now there were two. How unfortunate.

Now he turned to face the same fate. The Heavy glanced at the gorgon, trying to get a point fixed for the blinded Demoman. He was struck with a culmination of several feelings, all tangled and woven together. Fear was the predominant one, mixed with a touch of awe and amusement. The gorgon saw him, too. She smiled at him, long teeth jutting over her lips. There was more beast than human to this creature, and yet, it still held an air of seduction. The Heavy's heart should have been racing at such a glance, but it was slowing to a dull, leaden thump.

The Russian snapped himself out of it. That gorgon was right behind the Demoman, less than a meter away. He was still struggling with the knife in the wall. The hilt gave a little jiggle, then popped out. The Heavy paced himself, trying to find an accurate way to communicate with the Demoman. He wasn't risking becoming a statue just to have the Demoman miss again.

"Turn right. Stop when I say." The Heavy watched the Demoman turn slowly, once again settling his weight on his right foot. For a drunk, the Scotsman had a certain grace to his movements. Maybe being wasted all the time served to give him a second kind of balance. The Heavy waited patiently, a metallic sheen waving across his skin. Not much time left.

The Demoman lined up with the gorgon. "Now!"

With a mighty bellow, the Demoman pushed forward, swinging the meat cleaver back and forth in a mad criss cross. His first four attacks hit nothing, stirring only air. The gorgon tried double back, rolling over its tail. It wasn't fast enough. The fifth strike hit flesh. The monster made a high pitched scream, something distinctly human. Even with the wailing heavy on his conscience, the Demoman knew he couldn't let up. He pushed forward, slashing two more times. The screaming stopped mid-way through the gorgon's throat, a bubbling sound gushing forward. Then a small thump followed by a larger.

Was that it? The Demoman lifted his eye patch, placing it on his empty socket once more. "Gaaaah!" Now that he was seeing what everyone else had been staring at. The body half was snake from below the creature's hips, covered with smooth scales. The woman part up to the neck would have been pretty, had it not been covered in dark verdant blood. Gorgons had green blood. Go figure. Strung around the severed neck of the creature was a necklace, a card looped through the ball chain. The creature's head about the size of a human's, hair replaced with dozens of tiny vipers now slack-jawed in death. Her face was fixed in a permanent howl, sharp cheekbones and teeth worse than that of an angler fish's exposed. It was horrifying, even in death.

"Good job, you lush!"

The Demoman looked up. Life was coming back to the Soldier and the Russian, the glowing Australium fading back into pink skin. More surprisingly, the Medic was reviving as well. So that had been him! All three were somewhat woozy from the transformation. The Soldier hobbled towards the Demoman, giving him a high five before sitting down. The Medic nearly tripped into the blasted remains of the stairwell, worse off than the others for his extended time. The Heavy had him covered. He carried the babbling doctor over to the Soldier and Demoman, placing him against a solid wall.

The Medic murmured, holding his right hand against his forehead. "Fess. Mein gehirn."

"Is okay, Doctor. The Heavy gave the Medic a pat on the back. "We could use break, da?"

The Soldier hated to admit it, but he could use a few minutes to get over being a statue. He sighed. "Fine. We can take a five minute celebratory rest. Then we get back to work."

* * *

><p>Miss Pauling didn't know exactly what she was planning on seeing. She had one of two general assumptions. The first possibility was that she would just wake up back in the conservatory, her shirt damaged but her wounds otherwise healed. The second would be something supernatural. Bright lights, clouds, maybe brimstone. Some scene to prove she was clearly dead. She hadn't expected to come to in the Administrator's convertible. Perhaps she should have thought a dozen different things, but the first thing concern that came to mind was whether or not she was getting blood on the white leather interior. The Administrator struck her as somebody who would fire her staff for wrecking her car. Then again, she had the top rolled back in the rain, so Miss Pauling didn't know what to think.<p>

Her boss greeted here with a low chuckle. "You were doing so well, too."

"Apparently, not well enough." Miss Pauling sat up, looking outside of the car. The two women were parked at the edge of a cliff, a valley tumbling below them. She could see the manor, the barns, a lake. All of it was sealed off from the rest of the world by a blue hemisphere, shimmering as rain splattered across its surface. "I am surprised that I'm alive."

"Of course you are! Would I let my favorite assistant die in such a little game like this?" The Administrator reached over, pinching Miss Pauling's cheek. The motion was awkward, out of character.

Miss Pauling frowned. "Some game. It's quite different when you're in the thick of it."

The Administrator gave an impatient huff. She flicked the car's lighter open, placing the tip of a fresh cigarette inside the receptacle. Bringing it back to her lips, the Administrator scoffed her employee. "Oh, don't be so sensitive. Those dogs murder each other on a routine basis. The only difference this time is that one team is not human. Really, you should feel sorry for those poor beasts. Most of them don't even understand what is going on."

"I suppose so." Miss Pauling watched the manor with a sense of detachment. Little bursts of fire rocked around the manor like the last of lightning bugs dying with the fall. She turned away, overcome with a feeling of sheepishness. "They were intent on protecting me, though. I didn't expect that."

"Why wouldn't they? They don't know about your other skills. You are just a civilian." The Administrator leaned back, tobacco soaking into her lungs.

Civilian? That wasn't the term Miss Pauling was expecting the Administrator to say. "I thought you were going to imply socialized sexism."

That brought a dark laugh from the Administrator. "Oh, no. They're perfectly capable of fighting and killing women." She flicked ash out of the car, careful not to have the residue land on the paneling. "Before I hired you, I briefly had a female mercenary. She was good enough, I suppose. Had to have the Spy put her down, though. I believe he buried her out in Harvest. I tolerate a lot of things, Miss Pauling, but even I have my limits."

Miss Pauling smirked. "What did she do? Leave the curling iron plugged in?"

The Administrator became quiet about the topic. "Assault. Let's leave it at that."

"Oh. Sorry I asked." Now staring in the car was becoming too uncomfortable. Miss Pauling turned her head back to the carnage. She knew that everybody involved in this war had a sordid past, but no one openly talked about it. She was lucky to hear snippets of history, just enough to know that the foreigners had good reason to run to America. Really, she knew less about the United States citizens than the others, outside of the Scout's borderline oedipal concern about his mother's relationships. Maybe their battles were the safest times for them.

The Administrator didn't seem to be too concerned about her assistant's inquiries. She tilted her head upwards, her eyes empty as she stared into the dark, stormy night. "They have changed since I first employed you. This team in particular. They've…softened. I am disappointed to say I'm not completely upset about that, either."

"Thank you, I suppose," Miss Pauling didn't know if that was an insult or a compliment, but she was feeling optimistic.

"You know, you've been rather instrumental in getting them through their challenges tonight. It may be cruel of me to take you out of play. They may be stuck down there for quite a long time, wandering with no direction." The Administrator gave her a smile, her teeth flashing in the rain like lightning. "So, what do you say? Do you want to help them finish their little tasks?"

Miss Pauling nodded, the motion a little too quick and eager. She felt embarrassed, but managed not to blush too deeply. "But how do I get back through the grill?"

"Easy enough." The Administrator blew a cloud of smoke, disappearing into the storm in a haze of tobacco. "Just open your eyes."

So she did.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>

Meh, not my best. But as long as it keeps the plot moving. At least they've got the Medic back, right? Still down three people, though…

Probably not going to finish this in time for Halloween. Not gonna lie. But hey, did you guys see a preview for this year's map? Ho diggity.

That's all I've got. Please let me know how you're feeling, what mistakes I've made, etc. Your reviews are like scrumpy to me.


	8. Green Power

"Welcome back, m'am."

Miss Pauling shook her head. What a couple of saps. Both the Engineer and the Sniper had removed their hats, like they had met someone important or were at a wake. She had a strange feeling in her hip, like she'd slept on it wrong and it had gone numb. She was surprised to find her wound had been healed, a small white moon left after the fact. Swinging her legs off the side of the fold-out couch, she readjusted her glasses and regained her professional composure. There was nothing she could do about her mussed hairdo, however.

"How long was I out?" Miss Pauling asked.

The Engineer grabbed the Sniper by his left wrist, reading his watch. "Oh, maybe fifteen minutes. Not long at all."

"'dja mind?" The Sniper wriggled his wrist free. "Feelin' okay?"

Miss Pauling nodded. "I'm a little light headed at the moment."

"That'll pass in due time." The Engineer patted her on the shoulder. He turned to the Sniper. "Suppose we should get goin', pardner?"

"Hold on. Where do you think you are going?" Miss Pauling wobbled off the fold-out couch. Her brain felt like it was floating a foot above her skull. There was a pungent juniper stench emanating from a bottle placed on a nearby cabinet. It was one of the Medic's gel bottles. The odor and her blood loss were culminating into one dizzying fog wrapping around her cerebrum.

The Sniper straightened himself. "Gotta go back. Left the fight unfinished."

Miss Pauling crossed her arms, smiling. "Let me guess. You two were going to leave me to rest here."

Both men went red from embarrassment. There was a nervous bit of coughing, neither knowing what to say. The Engineer tried stammering a response. "We-well, it-it's not like we didn't think ya couldn't handle it, Miss Pauling, but—"

"—We haven't found the Medic yet, but we got plum lucky with the supplies in the doc's van. Still—" The Sniper tried continuing the Engineer's thoughts, but his tongue stopped up.

"—And that robot made me like Swiss cheese. I don't know how ya managed to only get shot once, but the Administrator'll kill us for good if, well, ya know—" The few seconds that the Sniper had bought for the Engineer's speech wasn't even close enough to the time that he needed to solidify his thoughts. He blushed again, unable to find the right words. It was hard to say what he wanted without sounding coddling or sexist.

Lucky for both of them, Miss Pauling was good at putting together context clues. "So, let me get this straight. You two want me to stare here and rest up while you go on ahead and finish off whatever you left in the conservatory?" They nodded in agreement, shrinking at her analysis. She continued on, her case becoming less about winning a dispute and more about having fun. "Gentlemen, tonight I've killed a human abomination, ran from zombies, killed said zombies with our mutual Russian friend, got in a fight with a werewolf, ran from a robot, hacked through a man-eating plant, and was shot. At this point, I doubt a couple inches of tin are going to keep me safe."

"Oy!" The Sniper took offense to Miss Pauling belittling his home. "It's probably three inches thick, at least."

Miss Pauling smiled. She patted both of them on the shoulder. "You'll just have to watch my back, won't you?"

The Sniper snapped his fingers. "Sure thing." He dug around in the overhead compartment of his van, kicking up dust as he explored. The Engineer and Miss Pauling watched him, both amused with his rummaging. He'd hauled himself halfway off the ground and into the compartment before he found the item he was searching for. With a backwards shimmy, he pulled out what Miss Pauling thought was a decoration. It had a sturdy frame, a crocodile's hide stretched across the back of it. A leather belt looped around the front, buckled together around the upper part of the band. Strangest of all, a small bird's skull dangled from the lower portion of the belt.

"Good God, Mundy." The Engineer shook his head. "I thought ya got rid 'a that forsaken thing."

The Sniper gave the Engineer a cross glance. "Now, why would I do that? Just 'cause I don't go usin' it every day doesn't mean I have to trash it." He turned to Miss Pauling. "Mitts up, if ya would."

Miss Pauling suppressed her laughter as much as she could. The Sniper slipped the object around her, locking the belt at her left shoulder. The shield wasn't heavy at all, and the hide at her back was comfortable, in an odd way. At this point, it was more about soothing their neurotic worries. Sure, the bird's skull was still weird, but she had to admit to feeling slightly more protected with whatever the hell this thing was resting against her spine.

"Thank you." Miss Pauling braced one hand against the shield's strap. "Now, may we get back to work?"

"Sure. Assumen', of course, Mundy doesn't have anything else he wishes to share." The Engineer shook his head, still embarrassed about the Sniper's offering. At least he hadn't broken out the mason jars. There was a difference between being as prepared a boy scout and being a batty hoarder.

The Sniper sighed, disappointed with himself. "'Friad I took everything else inside."

"Well then. We'll just have to go find it." Miss Pauling stepped out the back of the van. Even with the storm billowing around them and monsters still to be dealt with, she felt invincible. Now if she could only get the others as confident.

* * *

><p>Perhaps the Soldier wasn't the world's best improviser. He made damn good with what he could do.<p>

His map of the manor was filling in nicely. The Heavy had given him information about the buildings surrounding the complex. It was mostly barns, but there was a chapel and a graveyard close at hand. The Demoman had briefed him on the cellar and the stairwell he'd used to get to the lobby, also giving him the position of the kitchen and the dining room. The Medic was only able to give him the location of the study, but considering he'd just been un-petrified, that was all he'd been able to see. There was still a good chunk of the manor missing, but at least he had a general idea of their territory.

"Right, so, here's the situation." The Soldier cracked his index finger on the map. "Roy and Dale went to this side of the house while being pursued by a mechanical abomination. Pepé le Pew, Fireball and Bonk Boy ran this way, down the same hall as the kitchen and the dining room. Our armaments are most likely here, in the suites. We get over there, pick up what we can find, and then go after the shorties. Are we clear?"

The Heavy frowned. "Your words. They make no sense."

The Medic tried to shush the Heavy. "Just nod and pretend, ja?"

"That's what I always do." The Demoman leaned against the stair railing, still in a buzz over his latest victory and his wine binge. He started counting on his fingers, stopping at the ninth tick. "Wait. We're still missen' that one guy. Kinda tall. Talks like a git."

"I zink you mean ze Sniper." The Medic muttered under his breath. "Drunken dummkopf." Perhaps it was a little unfair to be berating the man who just saved his life, but the doctor was feeling sour. Needing help in the first place was an embarrassment to him. Having the barely lucid drunk save his life was a minor irritant on top of the full-blown migraine in his head.

The Soldier grumbled, scribbling more on his map. "Well, until we know better, let's assume the most likely scenario and say that he was eaten by a mutant crocodile."

"Giant plant, actually."

All four men turned to face the bottom of the stairwell. It was Miss Pauling, the Engineer and the Sniper. The three of them were soaked with rainwater and something that smelt awful, like diced geraniums. The Medic was the first down the stairs, rapidly checking over them for injuries. He hissed under his breath as he found Miss Pauling's wound. "Schweinehunds! Can't even protect a fair Fräulein."

The Engineer rubbed a hand against his head. "Hard to keep her safe when she goes off like an Amazon. Are y'all doing okay?"

"Are you kidding? We are dominating every damn thing that gives us the evil eye. Well, at least the Cyclops is." The Soldier took a sniff, gritting his teeth in disgust. "What's this about a giant plant, then? And what happened to that tin can menace?"

"We happened to take a wrong turn into the conservatory. That machine started attacking this giant plant instead of us. That's where we found the Sniper." Miss Pauling folded her arms behind her back, trying to avoid the sharp glare from the Medic. He was as overprotective as a mother bear, continuing to fuss with her even though she felt much better.

The Soldier nodded, snapping around on his heels. "Ah, yes. The eternal struggle between technology and nature." He then went to taunting the Sniper, patting him in a condescending fashion. "Fell for the old Audrey Two trap, eh, Legolance? It's lucky you have some real American steel protecting your colonial keister." The only response he got was a low growl, causing the rocket hopper to laugh.

"What about cards?" The Heavy asked.

Miss Pauling shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't grab them. Boys?"

The Engineer shook his head. "Nope. Last I knew, those two monsters were still fighten'."

"Well, let's go kill 'em off and loot their bodies and make a salad." The Demoman stumbled off his feet. He wandered a few paces before realizing he had no idea which way to go.

The Engineer sighed, leading the troop back to the conservatory. It was much quieter than before. Indeed, not much was left in one piece. Pots and statues of all kinds had been shattered, lying in crumpled heaps. Once mighty plants had been pulped and strewn around the floor. The only parts large enough to be recognizable were a few flowers, a couple giant stems, and some ragged leaves. The robot was in no better shape. Its turrets and launcher had been torn off, thick vines piercing armor and joints. Despite this, the machine was still somewhat operational. It tried turning to the intruders at the door, its body buckling under its own mass. A pang of sorrow struck the Engineer's heart. Yes, it was a murderous sentry, but it was Grandpappy's murderous sentry.

The Soldier felt no such regret about finishing the robot off. Bastard had blasted him into smithereens once. He owed the machine one. With a piercing howl, he charged at the robot. His frying pan was quick, smashing across the paneling in the front. As soon as he'd dented metal and broken into wires, he went into a frenzy, ripping out what he could. If he knew he wouldn't die instantly, he would have chewed on the wiring just to prove a point. He yanked out something rectangular and smooth from its chest compartment. With no dramatic fanfare, the robot clattered to the ground.

"Huh. Key card was controlling it." The Soldier shrugged, pocketing his reward. "What does that make us up to?"

The Engineer started ticking off their totals on his fingers. "Well, the Spy had one. So did the Scout."

"I've got two." Miss Pauling produced her cards, taking them out of a pocket in her jeans.

The Heavy retrieved his. "I got this with Miss Pauling. She ran before I could get it to her. Giant robot messes up many plans."

"And mine! Don't be a forgetten' about mine!" The Demoman waggled his in the air.

"…sieben, acht. Oct. No, eight once we find ze ozza card in here, yes?" The Medic buzzed his lips. "Hardly any work at all."

"If ya say so, Doc. We've got a sayin' that applies to this situation, and it involves needles and haystacks." The Engineer's eyebrows furrowed. "Anybody know what happened to our three missing amigos?"

The Soldier didn't have an answer for him. "I'll let you know as soon as I find out, Yellow Rose."

The Sniper interrupted their conversation by tossing a hunk of flower at the chattering group. "If ya yabbos are done clucken' about, ya mind openin' yar peepers and helpen' me look for that last card?"

The group set to work. It was a slippery, messy job. The rainstorm had drenched the inside of the conservatory, washing gunk every which way. It didn't help that it reeked of plant juices and, in some concentrated areas, blood. Nobody wanted to dig through the tangle where the Sniper had been held. It stank of his blood the worst there. Not that it smelt like a rose garden anywhere else. Some of the plants had pitcher extensions, capturing and rotting large insects and birds. The Medic was horrified by his discovery of a bird carcass in one of them. Sure, it was a buzzard's corpse, but it disheartened him to think that his precious little doves could have been harmed by such a plant.

After about five minutes of silent searching, Miss Pauling asked, "Any luck?"

"The only thing I'm dis-coovering is new ways to steenk." The Demoman held his nose together with his fingers.

"Da. Maybe Siberia had one advantage. Did not smell like dead plant." The Heavy hoisted a huge stem chunk off the ground, tossing it aside like it was nothing heavier than a twig.

The Soldier growled, his fatigues soaked with water and gunk. "I could use the human matchbox right now. Just burn this whole room up."

The Engineer disagreed, holding one chunk on his shoulder. "It's too wet in here. Wouldn't do any good."

"Maybe we're lookin' at this all wrong." The Sniper took a break from digging, observing the room for a moment. There were some balconies upstairs, the staircase up to them long since rotted and torn away. That seemed like a simple enough solution. He returned to the rank tangle, grabbing his former snares. It grew straight up, looping around the left balcony. That would do. The climb up was slick, but his fingers dug into the vines and stems like cat claws. With one last pull, he flipped himself up into the balcony. Easy enough, considering all things he went through already tonight.

It was hard to tell if this new angle helped anything. The lightning flashing off the drenched plants was white, hiding the hue of any keycard. He squinted his eyes, giving each inch of the floor a second before moving on. His nose itched as he viewed his shattered sunglasses, remembering the sharp strike across his face. He continued south of the rubble, his eyes setting on a strange stem. From up here, the bumps and distortions looked like characteristics of a human visage.

"Oy, big man." The Sniper pointed the Heavy towards the stem. "Give that a tug, would ya?"

The Heavy plunged his fingers into the stem, the flesh giving away easily. When he pulled back, his eyes widened. There was a white face staring back at him, calm and bowed. He continued pulling away, chunk after chunk revealing a statue about as tall as Miss Pauling. It was feminine, cloaked in a robe lined with roses. It almost looked like a religious symbol, something very much out of place in this hell house. As he pulled one more chunk out of the stem, he banged his knuckles against two folded hands. They dropped to the ground under his force.

Then a tile popped off the floor.

The Demoman was the closest to it when the tile flew up. Naturally, he freaked out. Hidden beneath it was a small, metal box. He picked it out of the hole in the floor, cracking the door open. There was the eighth card. He rolled his one good eye. "For cryin'—how the hell'd that even get in there?"

Miss Pauling had no answer. "I'm going to have to ask the Administrator about that one."

"Well, I'm done here." The Soldier walked towards the exit. "Come on, men! Let's go see if we can't find those three block-aaaaargh!"

Everybody snapped their head towards the door, jaws hitting the floor. Something dark and garnet hit the Soldier, rolling him over like a log in a river. It oozed around him, melting his flesh away. The Demoman shrieked, and rightly so. Seeing one's friend dissolved into bones within seconds was nothing to remain calm about.

It was worse, though. The Soldier's bones weren't the only thing floating in the massive blob. There were at least three other skulls, guns and weapons suspended in the mess. It had absorbed other debris as well—plates, knives, forks, stones, wood. Everything it could roll over was a constituent of its body, and damn, was it fast. It sat fat and happy in the team's path, the lower exit sealed away. The only way out was up.

The red tide rolled into the conservatory, prepared to consume anyone or anything in its path.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Sad to say, this is probably the last chapter I'll get in before Halloween proper is over. Hopefully, you'll want to follow this through to the end.

That's all I've got. Sorry. But hey, think about it—two more cards to go! Should be an easy finish, right? Right?

Mwa ha ha ha ha!


	9. Clean Sweep

There were many disputes between the nine men on who was the de facto captain of their team. Obviously, the Administrator was the top dog, but the chain of command got fuzzier below her and Miss Pauling. The Soldier was the bossiest, so his plans always were announced first, regardless of how well they would work in play. He was also the most inspirational, always quick with a grandiose, somewhat rambling speech. Hardly anyone argued with the Medic's wishes—going without his help was as good as digging one's own grave. The rest were usually complacent with offering their input when the situation required their knowledge and skills. The Demoman and the Spy were fast at poking through enemy strongholds and disabling anything they came in contact with. The Engineer was as solid as a steel wall against other combatants. The Sniper's constitution put him at odds with others in direct combat, but he was as hazardous and unpredictable as bolts from the blue from miles away. The Scout and the Pyro didn't have to put much thought into their role in the team. All they had to do was plow through any knucklehead that dared to stick a muzzle in their face.

The Heavy was composed, doing only as he and his partners saw fit. When he raised his voice to give a command, everybody obeyed. "Upstairs! Now!"

Whether it was a foregone conclusion or a miscalculation, the Heavy was convinced that he could not climb up the vine tangle to the balconies above without tearing the plant loose. His concern was only for his teammates. The mighty Russian grabbed Miss Pauling by the shield on her back. He tossed her onto the plant, his strength enough to propel her halfway up the tangle. The Medic was the next up the vine, boosted when the Heavy knelt down and offered his back as a step. Miss Pauling had cleared the top by the time the Engineer leapt onto the vine, the Medic shortly behind her. The Sniper pulled them up, his boots digging into the ground to offset the men's weights.

"DeGroot! Now!" The Heavy barked at the last member he could help.

"I'm comin'! Just—argh!" The Demoman's gawking and inebriated state had delayed him for one second too long. The ooze snatched the Scotsman by his ankles, spilling around his body like a wave of gelatin. He tried clawing his way out of the mess. Fingertips lost their flesh before they could break the creature's surface. His bones disappeared in the swell.

The Medic yelled at the Heavy, trying to get him to follow them up the plant. "Schweinhunde! Come on!" He readied his crossbow, bolts slow at his fingers.

At that point, it wouldn't have mattered if the Heavy would have tried to escape or not. The maneater struck the Heavy, rolling over him like a tsunami. He did not scream, but his dissolving body told a tale of horror. The Medic bellowed, indignant at the Russian's demise. The giant's jaw was the last he saw of his partner. His face burned hotter than the sun, his rage tangible. He hissed in pain, hovering over the edge of the balcony. He fired into the beast, the crossbow's bolt striking the mutable flesh of the oozing creep.

What surprised everyone was when it reeled back from the shot.

The Engineer loaded his pistol, testing to see if it had any effect. He stood next to the reloading Medic, firing off an entire clip into the ooze. The bullets sped through the skin of the monster, but sank into the ooze like any other piece of debris. He shook his head, dumbstruck. "How in the hell d'ya do that?"

The Medic unloaded another shot, still ablaze with anger. "I have no idea!" As he prepared another shot, the Engineer took a bolt from the Medic's satchel. It was coated with a fine layer of slime. The Engineer's eyebrows furrowed. He'd never heard of a crossbow that needed lubricated bolts. The ammunition smelt odd, something like mint and juniper.

That smell was familiar all four of them. Miss Pauling stated what they all thought. "That's medical gel, isn't it?"

"Oh my God." The Engineer tucked the bolt back into the Medic's satchel. "Doc, what does that stuff do, anyway?"

The Teutonic man gave him a gruff answer. "Vat do you mean? It fixes everyzing! Cuts, scrapes, burns, boils, swelling, infected tissue—"

The Sniper yanked the Medic and the Engineer away from the edge of the balcony. The oozing creature was working its way up the side of the conservatory, its mass pouring into nooks and crannies and wrapping around anything it could to make its way up. Skulls popped out to greet them, white smiles chilling in the stormy air. The Australian led the retreat. "Hope ya packed more of that stuff, Doc!"

It was a strange turn of events, having the Medic being their only line of offense. Not that the good doctor couldn't hold his own in combat. It was rarely required of him, and even then, it was usually him ramming a bone saw through any unfortunate soul that mistook his healing prowess for weakness. Never the less, he was holding up well. The ooze was slowing down, flesh solidifying and sticking together with more consistency. That came with a new disadvantage, however. This creature was heavy and fast, now striking less like a wave and more like thick custard.

"I did take a—oof!—few items viz me!" The Medic ducked, quick to avoid a tendril of gunk to his face. "Mein raum is to ze right!"

Normally, when breaking through a door, the Spy was the go-to man. He had the tools and the finesse to get into any room without leaving evidence of his picking. Being down a Frenchman left the delicate act to the Engineer. While he didn't have the tools for lock-picking, he did have a sturdy mechanical fist that could slam through wood like it was as weak as cardboard. Maybe he could have asked the Medic for the key to his room, but considering he was busy fighting a giant gelatinous ooze, that seemed a little rude. Besides, it wasn't every day that the Engineer got to punch a door in. One had to take opportunities presented to them.

The Engineer slammed his fist into the suite door, yanking the knob away as he drew back. The frame cracked, the metal lock torn free. The trio shoved into the room, trying desperately to find anything of use. Within a few seconds, the Sniper had located a couple of medical bottles. He didn't stay long, quick to return to the Medic's side.

It was lucky that the Sniper came back to the fight when he did. The Medic and the ooze had drawn their brawl into the end of the suite's hallway. The doctor was trapped between three solid walls and one mountain of pulpy gunk. Never-the-less, he was still unloading crossbow bolts into the monster, a twisted smile hanging for its life on his lips. At the range he was standing, he may have just as well pitched his entire satchel into the beast.

"Heads up!" The Sniper pitched the first of the bottles at the beast. It didn't shatter as well as a mason jar, but the plastic cracked against the floor under the sharp throw. The contents of the bottle splattered against the ooze, skin thickening in the impact. Half of the gunk reached back towards the Sniper, the rest still trying to smother the Medic.

The Sniper twisted off the lid of the next bottle with his teeth, spitting the cap off to the side. "Hurry it up, you two!"

"Just a second!" The Engineer panicked, rooting through as many of the closets and trunks as possible. The Medic was not a light packer. Normally, he would complain about this not being efficient, but it might save their necks in this case. He turned his head to Miss Pauling. "Find anythin'?"

Miss Pauling flopped open another suitcase. It was filled with toiletries, shampoos, and hairbrushes. At least this one wasn't filled with bandages and underwear. She grabbed one more, huffing as she flopped it onto a bed. "Unless you want to set up a barber shop, I think we're sunk." She unzipped the trunk, her eyebrows furrowing. "Wait a second."

The Engineer rushed to see what Miss Pauling had found. It was one of the Medic's medi guns, disassembled and packaged with care. He frowned as he started snapping the pieces together. "God, this thing's a mess." The nozzle was cracked. Hoses connecting to the backpack were frayed. The trigger was sticky, and the Ubercharge gauge was broken and constantly pointing to the middle. It wasn't worth anything in typical battle. It would probably just leak all over the place. He twisted the last of the pieces together, shaking his head. "Don't think it'll do much good."

"If it does anything, it'll be worth it." Miss Pauling yanked the device out of the Engineer's hands, rushing out to the hallway with the pack slung over her shoulder. There was no time to waste. The ooze was stretched out like a two-headed snail, its skin almost as solid as human flesh. It had squashed the Medic against the wall, trying to suffocate him within its folds. The Sniper was pulling against it, his fingers slipping through the slimy surface. He yelped and withdrew his hands, his skin burnt from lingering acid a few inches below the newly-forming skin. The Medic tried kicking the ooze aside, but he was growing weaker.

Then his eyes caught the device in Miss Pauling's hands. "Use zat! Now! Push—ack!—ahead!"

Not a problem. She'd seen the good doctor use this device through thousands of hours of recorded footage. Miss Pauling pressed the lever forward, kicking the machine to life. It had a weak stream and was leaking medical gel everywhere, but it was working. The Medic pointed to the monster, about to pass out from the pressure on his chest. She aimed the nozzle of the gun at the ooze. It throbbed like a giant heart under strain from the gun.

As she held the broken medi gun at the maneater, the Sniper ducked under its stream. He rushed to get to the Medic. The German was still fighting, but his kicks were no stronger than a slight churn. The Sniper pushed against the monster, forcing a pocket between it and the wall. The Medic slid free, gasping for air. Grabbing his arm, the Sniper dragged the Medic aside.

Just as the both of them had escaped from the opposite side of the beast, a shudder rocked the medi gun pack. Miss Pauling could feel the machine overheating. It had built up an Ubercharge. Well, so far it had a good job in solidifying the gelatinous ooze. Maybe a good shock would put it over the top. She flipped the switch on the backpack, discharging the pent up energy. The glop shimmered with a polish as brilliant as any gemstone. She yelped as the pack shocked her as well. Miss Pauling hadn't expected an Ubercharge to hurt. That didn't seem right.

"Ditch ze pack!" The Medic coughed at her.

Miss Pauling pitched the backpack. When it hit the floor, it short-circuited. There was a small flash of electricity and fire, and then the medi gun died. It had done its work, however. The once oozing maneater was now still. It sat like a gigantic tumor in the hallway, ponderous in its girth. The Engineer stepped out of the Medic's suite, a low whistle on his lips. "Well, now. Would ya look at that?"

"I've seen a lot of disgusting things tonight. This might be the worst." Miss Pauling shook her head.

The Sniper sighed. "We're not done yet. Still gotta—holy dooley!" He rushed back towards the monster, prodding it with sensitive fingertips. Little bumps pushed back against his hand. It extended into one giant lump pressing out. The remaining teammates gathered around it, watching with surprise as more protrusions forced itself from the depths of this monster.

Then a blade pierced the coagulated creature from the inside out.

As the silvery metal sawed its way down, the Sniper held the monster's skin taught. It cut cleanly, once volatile liquids oozing out as harmless pus. The contents stank, sticking to the back of their throats like the scent of a skunk. Spilling from the cut wound was a nauseated Frenchman. He made an undignified sound like he was going to vomit. Never the less, he steeled his guts.

The Medic snapped to work, re-energized by the sight of a weakened teammate. "Don't stand around, Frauleins! Towels! Water! Soap! Now!"

Miss Pauling, the Engineer, and the Sniper didn't second-guess the Medic's commands. As they went around and gathered materials, the Medic started draining the ooze like it was a giant cyst. He pushed against the solid flesh, yellow gunk popping forward in odd clumps. The next person to slide loose was the Soldier, who was more dazed and confused than disgusted. The Scout clawed his way out next, freaking out by his experience. The Pyro wasn't nearly as concerned, but he was covered in a full body suit. Being drenched in gunk was merely a minor inconvenience. The Demoman, however, was concerned about the state of his sideburns and hair. He took an entire shampoo bottle to make sure that nothing could possibly remain after he washed it out. It was with great relief that the Medic finally helped the Heavy step free of the mess. The Russian gave him a huge, sloppy hug. He didn't mind that he was soaked in God knows what visceral fluids. He was just happy to have his team back together.

"I know we probably have other things to worry about, but did anyone find a card in that…whatever that was?" Miss Pauling asked.

The Pyro gave Miss Pauling a thumbs up. He produced a slime-coated card. "Ai fowed id affda Ai died da durd dime."

She picked up a towel. "Maybe I'll just clean this off a little bit."

"Pass that over when you're done, would ya? Think the Spy missed a spot." The Sniper licked his thumb, wiping sludge off skin under the Spy's eye. That earned the Australian a palm-full of ooze slathered through his hair.

The team took the time to scrub themselves free of the congealed gunk. It was about ten minutes to clean the ooze away. Getting read of that maneater's corpse was beyond comprehension at the moment. The Administrator wanted them to fight that thing. She could hire somebody else to clean it up. And the conservatory. And the lobby. Really, the whole mansion needed a good tune-up and a fresh coat of paint.

When they found that last card, the manor would be lucky if the team didn't collectively decide to burn it down.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

So, I could have written this on Halloween, but I decided to write a three-parter about snake people instead. You know how that goes, right?

Sorry if you were a little grossed out. I tried to add some cute at the end to fix it, but—well, being a Medic is not an easy job. Think about the nasty, filthy things your doctors see every day!

You've got to love how there's always that one boss in Final Fantasy games where you can wing a healing item at it, and it dies in one hit. What's up with that?


	10. Stuffed Closet

Nobody knew what to do next.

The basics had been done to prepare the team for their last collection. Everybody had scrubbed the gunk of the maneater clean from themselves. Not many items remained in their luggage—most of the useful weapons and items went missing. What was left was packed up and placed in the Sniper and the Medic's vehicles. Once they got the last card and deactivated the Material Emancipation Grill, they were heading straight back to the base. Well, except for the Soldier, who was still adamant about hitting up any bars they found on the journey back. Work had to come first, though.

"Miss Pauling, gentlemen, let's make this as quick as possible." The Soldier marched around his troops, trying to formulate his latest half-baked plan. "We're still missing some of our weapons. We have only one card left to find. We do not know where any of these items are. If anybody has a plan, this would be the time to share it."

The Pyro offered his suggestion. "Pahapf ve med du ook ad yur mab agun?"

"I see." The Soldier nodded. "Anybody catch that?"

"Think Mumbles was talkin' 'bout your map." The Engineer gestured towards the tattered piece of paper in the Soldier's pocket. The fellow American nodded, flipping the paper outwards. It was covered in several layers of blood and ooze. He scrapped the gunk away, scribbling the rest of the manor in place. Maybe it was best to make a checklist.

The Soldier chewed on the end of his pencil. He made a face and retracted it from his mouth. That was coated in slime, too. He spat on the ground, trying to clear that taste off of his tongue. "Let's see here. Lobby, cleared. Kitchen, done. Dining room, empty. Suites, cleaned. Conservatory, check. Billard room, done. What am I missing?"

The Medic pointed to the library and the study. "Ze rooms have not been searched, ja? I did not see anyzing in the study, but zer may be somezing zer."

"Right. Just found these in the library. Can't say I checked anything out there, myself." The Engineer patted the blueprints jutting out of the pouch on his tool belt.

The Heavy's mind sparked. "Ah. Scottish man spoke about talking axe in basement."

Everybody raised their heads at once. Now everybody was looking to the Demoman for further explanation. His eyes widened. With the onslaught of horrors he had after the event in the wine cellar, he'd completely spaced off the fact that he'd left a talking axe down there. Remembering did him no great service.

"Well, I suppose if we gotta, but I'd just as soon not, boyos." The Demoman scrunched up his face. What was supposed to be a long-winded appeal for mercy came out very passive.

The Soldier nodded, his mind set. "Duly noted. Let's go."

The motley collection of mercenaries and the assistant proceeded to the wine cellar. It was just as murky as the Demoman remembered. One of the barrels remained where he had last been drinking from it. His stomach churned at the thought of the wine in it. It was horribly strong with age. It should have melted the lining clean out of his belly. The troop wandered the cellar, looking for the object that the Demoman had reported encountering. It certainly didn't take long. The axe lay where the Scotsman had abandoned it, swirled in dust and cobwebs kicked up from beneath a rack.

Nobody was too impressed with the weapon. Yes, it looked spooky. It wasn't chatty, though. Maybe Tavish had finally lost it. The Scout rubbed it in his face. "How hammered did ya get down here, huh? Talking axe. Geez, go figure." He picked up the axe by its hilt. He forced his voice lower, speaking with a hammy cackle. "I'ma gonna swallow yer soul! 'N den your booze! Which is yer soul! Because yer such a—such a—yer really drunk, dat's why."

"Ngh. Screw off, ya tiny rabbit man." The Demoman was embarrassed enough as is. No need to have some half-pint rub it in.

The Scout never knew when to shut his trap. "Hey, it's okay. Da Heavy talks to things all da time. Maybe they talk back, too."

"Is stupid idea." The Heavy felt no need to humor the Scout. "What would axe have to say?"

"Heads!"

The Scout shrieked, pitching the axe to the ground. The Demoman pointed at it, yowling as badly as the Scout. "I told ya! It's possessed by the devil, and ya woke it up! Gaaah!"

The Engineer was not as shocked as his teammate. He squatted next to the talking weapon, investigating it with a cool head. As it continued its incessant chanting, he flipped the axe over. No, it didn't look like it was battery operated. He looked for anything like a transmitter on it. The chattering got louder, which only served to irritate the Texan. He pitched the weapon aside. The noise continued, not moving from the spot where he sat. No, there had to be something over here.

"'s up, Dell?" the Sniper asked.

The Engineer started rooting around the corner of the wine cellar. "Dunno, Stretch. Must be a speaker or somethin' around—eureka!" Tossing rubbish aside, the Texan found a hole in the wall. He rooted around with it. Pulling back his hand, he produced a round loudspeaker disc. "Wouldya look at that?"

The Soldier huffed. "What a cheap trick. What set it off?"

"Infrared sensor? Let me just dig a little further back here." The Engineer stuck his human hand back into the wall. He could feel a wooden box and cables that dropped from above. "Seems like there's some kind of hole back here. Maybe another room."

The Spy pushed his way next to the Engineer. He shooed the Texan away. "Allow me." Finding hidden rooms was nothing for an intelligence agent like the Spy. Many villains thought they could be smart enough to hide information from him in secret rooms. Detecting them was almost second nature for him. He traced a vertical line with his eyes, wandering up from where the Engineer had found the speaker in the wall. Then he rolled them. Whatever cur had made this hidden room had done a poor job. The lock for it was clearly hidden behind the one slightly off-color brick.

Flipping the false brick back, the Spy found an access panel. It was so cheaply made as to be laughable. He rooted around in the electronics, small shocks unable to pierce his gloves. With a quick yank, he popped the fake door aside. He was not congradulated with a round of applause or a pat on the back, however. His success was acknowledged with a series of shrieks and screams.

"I assure you, that did not hurt in the—mon dieu!" The Spy jumped back from the horrible surprise he had discovered. Just because the team had seen death tonight didn't mean that a dead body wouldn't scare the living daylights out of them. It was the corpse of a rat faced man, his face decorated with thin facial hair and a triangular soul patch. Parts of his hair had gone white, although it was uncertain whether or not that was due to aging or some strange sort of style. His beady eyes stared at nothing, jaw dropped open and exposing bucked teeth. Shoved in his mouth was the tenth and final key card.

Miss Pauling felt a cold horror spread through her chest. "It's the Director."

The Soldier's jaw hit the floor. "What?"

"I-I was sure I'd killed him!" She ran a hand behind her scalp, her knees weak. The Heavy placed an arm behind her back as she stammered on in confusion. "I knew I should have shot him in the head. You'd think a six foot grave and eight bags of corpse-grade limestone would be enough."

The Medic steeled up to the presence of the corpse before anybody else. He poked it in the face, his own visage scrunched up in confusion. "Ven did you kill him?"

Miss Pauling did the math. "Around six months ago, I guess?"

"Zen you did not murder him." The Medic continued his investigation. He wiggled the Director's arm around. "He's just barely begun rigor mortis. Could not be much more zen three, four hours deceased."

Now Miss Pauling dropped her jaw. "What?"

While the Medic had been investigating the corpse, the Engineer had taken to looking at the equipment behind the Director. There were several screens, all monitoring different parts of the manor. "Looks like this has been recordin' us. Give me a sec." He fumbled with the screens, focusing in on the one taping this hidden room. Hours of nothing flashed by, the corpse sitting like a broken doll. There was a flash of white, and then the Director was upright, dragged into a vertical position like a hastily moved puppet. The Texan stopped, playing the footage back.

The Director was halfway through a tirade at this point. His voice echoed through the speakers in the room. "—was hardly an inconvenience, even with the tarp. And who shoots a man in the buttocks, anyway?"

Miss Pauling's face went red. "Well, the Administrator did say to shoot that ass. I thought it was funny."

The Director continued on, not stopping for one moment. "At any rate, getting a chance to film these peons suffering was worth that humiliation. I was glad that the Administrator saw things my way and threw her little bitch to the wolves as well. It will be grand to watch her—what? Hello?" The Director leaned out of his chair, looking away from the camera filming him. "Yes, hello? M'am? Can I help you?"

Everybody watched on in horror at the following events. The Director's eyes went wide, white as sheets. He leaned back in his chair, squirming and babbling nonsense. A blur glided through the door, stopping just before him. There was a moment where it looked just a like a woman, frocked in a century's old dress. Nothing fancy, nothing frilly. As conservative as an old house frau's dress. The tape began flickering, static rippling across the screen. There was a smudge of something dark, chopped cuts of a man's scream. Then a blast of white noise and rippling distortions. Black. White. Black. White. Nothing. Nonsense. Nothing again. Then a dead man with a card in his mouth.

"Whu-whu-what the hell was that?" The Scout chattered, shivering at the footage.

The Engineer frowned. "I haven't got a clue. Should I rewind it?"

There was a splattering of noise from everyone, but the agreement was universal. No, nobody needed to see that again.

The Medic withdrew the card from the mouth of the dead Director. He wiped saliva off of it, then tucked it into his overcoat. "Let's just find zat Material Emanzipation Grill and get it turned off. No need to stand around here, ja?"

The Spy scratched his chin, studying the monitors. "Hmm. How strange." He went through the screens, noting one that was clearly pointed at a strange machine. Most likely that grill. The other seemed to be sitting inside of a church. There didn't seem to be any others that were out of place. There had to be some kind of connection there. "Zer is a chapel here, is zer not?"

The Heavy nodded. "Just outside of manor. To the west."

"Zen we go zer." The Spy tapped on the monitor as to confirm his destination.

The Sniper raised his hands. "Hold it, Spy. I thought the notes the Administrator left us said that this thing was in the cellar. Is there another cellar around here?"

The Spy laughed, amused with the Sniper's naïve reliance on truth. "Unless she handed it to me personally, I would not trust zat letter any longer."

It was worth investigating, at any rate. The team left the haunting room, closing the door once more. They trekked out of the manor, quickly locating the chapel in the graveyard. Considering the bright garishness of the rest of the household, the inside of this holy ground was dull. It seemed quaint, everything made of thick, centuries-old wood. The windows were nothing too grand, depicting no biblical events. Rather, they were faded with time, glowing pastel in the moonlight. The rows of pews were limited, unable to seat more than forty people. If it weren't for the simple cross on the wall, it may have been mistaken as an old-time schoolhouse. Either the Manns weren't particularly religious, or they didn't like sinking their money into churches. Neither option would have surprised the group.

"Perhaps I'm statin' the obvious, but there doesn't seem to be much right here," the Engineer said.

The Soldier shrugged. "Let's give it the once over."

The group started searching the chapel. The Scout, Soldier, and Pyro rummaged through the pews, throwing musty hymnals around in search of hidden buttons. The Heavy lifted furniture, searching beneath everything in vain. The Engineer and the Demoman walked along the walls of the chapel, looking for any structural weaknesses, hidden doors, or in the Demoman's case, communion wine. The Sniper searched for a way into the rafters while Miss Pauling, the Spy, and the Medic searched the altar. The only thing of any use any of them found was a box of matches below the altar, which was quickly passed to the Pyro.

"Flame's out," the Medic mumbled.

That caught the Spy's attention. "Come again?"

The Medic tapped on a candle next to the pastor's pulpit. It was surrounded with red glass, smudged with years of soot. "Zis. Ze eternal flame of a church should not be extinguished."

"Doctor, you surprise me." The Spy investigated the candle. It was new, fresh. It had been lit once, but it not for very long. Small wax beading trailed down only one side of the stick. This was peculiar.

The rest of the team came into the altar area to see what the Spy and the Medic were staring at. The Pyro mumbled a surprised sound. He lit a match, passing it to the Spy. The Frenchman nodded his thanks. "Good zinking. Now, let us zee." He placed his left hand around the glass, holding the match just above the wick. "You all may wish to step back. I do not know what will—"

Just as the flame from the match touched the candle, a familiar sensation visited the group. Freefall. The floor to the altar sprung open, dumping the team below. Within a few seconds of falling, they landed with an awkward splash below. Water pooled around them, standing at nearly a meter deep. The church had dumped them into an underground channel. The trap door snapped into place, locking them in the dark abyss below.

The Sniper was the first to get his legs underneath him. He coughed up water, wringing liquid out of his hat. "Gettin' tired of all the bloomin' trap doors!"

The Soldier wasn't amused either. "Anybody got a light? It's darker than a French whore's armpit."

"Connard," the Spy hissed. "Yet another suit ruined, too."

There was a series of scraping, and then a burst of orange light. The Pyro had managed to save one dry match. He stole the Soldier's map from the American's pocket. While some of the paper was damp from the sudden drenching, the dry portions managed to catch flame in a few seconds. The Soldier stammered in incredulity. He'd worked hard on that map.

The orange glow from the burning map revealed a murky, gloomy passageway. Bricks lined the walls, coated in dark green gunk and black mold. The stagnant air squatted in their lungs. Crumbling holes in the wall lead up to rusting rungs. The ladder that was used to ascend and descend this pit had rotted away, chunks of metal and wood floating in the dark pool around them. Going up and out was going to be much less convenient than going straight ahead.

"Looks like we've only got one way to go, gentlemen," Miss Pauling said.

"Aye. Pity that," the Demoman frowned.

Being the torchbearer, the Pyro took point. The Scout and the Soldier were on his heels. The Medic, Miss Pauling, and the Engineer took the next row, followed in turn by the Demoman and the Spy. The Sniper and the Heavy fell to the back. With all of the tricks they had fallen prey to, everybody kept a wary vigil on their surroundings. Their path wound deeper, growing warmer as they descended. It was as if they were marching into hell itself.

The passageway dumped the team into an impossible chamber. The cobblestone walls continued throughout it, winding upwards into a wide cylinder. They could see the stars and a full, heavy moon above them. The group was just underneath a clock tower, a yellow face beaming light into the night sky. Bones were strewn about every which way, with no regard to what parts belonged to which body. The Medic studied one of the skulls around them, noting a disproportionately large amount of features uncommon amongst the Mann family. The Engineer caught the same discrepancy, muttering under his breath. "The manor's built over an Indian burial ground? Gotta be kidding me."

"Truckie, big picture." The Sniper brought the Engineer's attention to the center of the chamber. "Care to tell what that is?"

The hulking metal box in the middle of the grounds was unlike anything he'd encountered before. It was some kind of computer, but nothing like the models that RED or BLU had. Its cabinets were built out of steel, riveted in place. The machine looked like it was at least a decade or two outdated. Tubes from the machine ran upwards, pumping energy up and out.

"Looks that might be controllen' that grill." The Engineer scratched his chin. "Well, let's do this."

The team huddled around the box. There were a series of ten slots to the right-hand side of the machine. With quiet anticipation, the group collected and inserted every card. The computer hummed away happily, accepting each card. It didn't even matter than some were chipped, burned, or previously slimed. As the last card slipped into the machine, an unusual quietness swept through the chamber. The bright energy above their heads fell. The night was a dark indigo once more, no more shield sealing them off.

The Soldier clapped the nearest two teammates—the Spy and the Scout—on their backs. "Good job, team! Now, onto the fiestas and senoritas!"

"Gentlemen? Young lady? Where you think you are going?"

Everyone turned, their blood frozen. There was an elderly woman standing behind them. Her eyes were narrow, features like that of a viper's. White hair was styled back into a bun, pulling aged, jaundiced skin back too tightly. She was dressed in a red house dress, the collar of her gown shielding her neck. When she smiled, the hairs on the back of their arms shot straight up.

Her voice was deceptively soothing, like that of a scheming grandmother. "We have more business to do."

From the old woman's mouth sprung dark, sharpened fingertips that snatched the team by their throats.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

I'm glad I took my time with this. I was originally going to have the axe be a poltergeist version of the Horseless Headless Horsemann's Headtaker, but it was just too damn goofy. So, I dumped that out and placed in not quite dead and then very dead Director. Something that would freak Miss Pauling out. What do you think? Was that a good choice?

My outline for the next chapter reads "nightmare fuel ensues." If that's not a tease that will bring you back, then clearly, I don't know how to hold your attention. (Or I could promise more sexy times. We know that would be just as horrifying, considering what just happened.)

Doing okay? We're just about done…Whose nightmare are you looking forward to seeing?


	11. Nightmare Fuel

Fire was raining from the sky. Purple clouds whirled and churned across the setting sun, whipping the atmosphere into a frenzy. Twin tornadoes touched down, swirling dust into the air. Trees were ripped from the ground. The air shattered the earth, dust and debris pulled away from centuries old fields. The only thing that remained stationary in this apocalyptic vortex was the dirt road. This may very well be how the world will look in its final, trembling moments, with nature consuming itself and rendering everything to dust and ash.

This did not phase the Pyro.

He'd walked down this road several times before. It was to his grandmother's house, or to a school he'd long since left. There would always be forty miles to go. His feet never ached. He would not grow weary. It was a nightly march to some random destination, and he took it in stride. Funny, though. He didn't remember going to sleep. This was his dream, without a doubt. He was used to it.

As he walked through the chaos, unharmed by the tempest at work, he came across two small figures standing on the side of the road. One was a woman with white hair, another with black. They spoke without facing each other, eyes perpetually fixed on the road, lips and jaws flapping. The Pyro had no idea what their conversation was about. The tornadoes were doing well to drown them out. Even then, he wouldn't have understood much. Everyone else always sounded warbled to him through his mask. He could have stopped and read their lips, but it wasn't his place. It was just a couple of farmhands, anyway. Probably more concerned with where their barns had flown to.

The Pyro continued his march, coming over a hill. That was when he stopped in his tracks.

Now he remembered why he could never get beyond the last forty miles in his journey. It would always be sitting in the lane. To most, it looked harmless. It was a small, fluffy, yellow avian with round, black eyes and a smooth orange beak. A precious little duckling. For whatever reason, it always decided to roost in the center of the road. It was not concerned with where its mother went, nor if any vehicles were to come along. The storm didn't harm it, sailing over it without disturbing as much as a feather. It was as eternal and stationary as a mountain.

The duckling craned its head towards the Pyro. He winced, knowing what was coming next. Its eyes widened, fixed on the man in the rubber suit. That orange beak would slowly open, tipping that adorable little head back. Instead of a smooth interior, the Pyro was presented with rows of daggered, shark-like teeth. The duckling tipped its head back almost one-hundred and eighty degrees, its skull upside down and touching the back of its neck.

It unleashed a deafening roar.

* * *

><p>It was the seventeenth dove that the Heavy had buried in that cold, unforgiving ground.<p>

The villagers watched his labor in fright. They had their reasons for fearing him and his family. His father's explosive temper and massive size kept the town on edge. His mother and sisters were homely, shrewd, quick to grind offenders into dust. They were all healthy as oxen, never slowing nor succumbing to disease. When the villager's doves started dying, they all looked to the Heavy's family with envy and disdain, knowing that they would not be harmed by the same illness. The devil did not want the souls of those he'd already secured. He only wanted the innocent.

The Heavy had loved this dove, with its charming pigtails and sweet smile. He should have brought her more bread, even if it meant risking a savage beating. The poor little thing never stood a chance in the sharp, merciless winter. He looked up for a moment, observing the crowd gathering around him. They watched him with pity and disgust, as if he were vicariously infected by dealing with the dead birds.

Two women were observing him with particular interest. The older of the two—the one with hair like fresh snow—leaned towards the shorter woman. "Do not see it as a tragedy. They will not be in any more pain."

The Heavy sighed. The old woman was right. At least these doves would be spared from another harsh winter. He plucked the next dove out of the heap. It was graying, spectacled. It didn't look like it was hurt or sick in any way. Why would it be dead now? He rubbed his hands over its frozen breast, sorrow still lingering at the edges of his heart. Oh, well. No more pain for this little fellow.

He placed the dove back on the ground, retrieving his shovel once more. After this one, he would have nine more to bury before he could go home for supper.

* * *

><p>Damned hooligans. They couldn't leave a dying city in peace.<p>

The Soldier stood in the gray rain, observing the tattered remains of the street with a dull, empty sorrow. Glass was reduced to little scattered triangles strewn amongst newspapers and filth. The gun store had been emptied, nothing left in its shelves. Jewelers and bakeries were gutted as well, their vandals split between old desires and current struggles. A shattered statue lay on the ground, President Lincoln's head separated from the rest of his body. The Soldier picked his head up, settling it into the antique shop where it had sat for days before this atrocity, judging the felonies occuring around it with silent horror. He gave the president a quiet salute, then continued his slow skulking.

Television sets flickered to life as he passed by. The tiny ones and those in color had been stolen, leaving hulking cabinet sets in various states. All of the screens, regardless of their functionality, were turned to the same channel. There were two women debating in the set, both dressed in tweed blazers and skirts. Just some rerun of a public access show, kicked on by some station locked in an eternal loop with no controllers to change the programming.

The elder was leading their discussion, leaning towards her guest. "Consider my proposal. They will never be lonely here. They will always have each other."

The Soldier shook his head, strolling past the empty street. How wrong that woman was. If she was here to see this chaos, she'd know otherwise. What had reduced this beloved city to rubble? Was it the Germans? The Japanese? The Russians? Probably not the Italians. He wandered past an intersection, crossing into a park. He cupped a hand under his chin, trying to think of more ways this place could have fallen. The earth was scorched, popcorn and hotdogs rotting in their vendors' carts. It had to have been a war. But who did this?

It was when he reached a hill overlooking the lower portions of the park that the Soldier had his answer. The reason for the destruction was as impossible as an American city being shattered by war.

Sitting in the low fields were silver cylinders and hemispheres. They were impossibly smooth, not riveted or welded together. It was as if they had sprung up from the ground just the way they were. The silver objects sat on spindly legs, circular feet spreading their mass across the grass. They stood as tall as homes, knocking trees aside as easily as toothpicks. They chased the remaining survivors around the park, snatching the slowest up and crushing them like bugs. Their corpses were arranged in neat stacks beside the more stationary of the machines, laid out in pyramids. All civilians. All of them.

A lesser man would have sat down, resigned to his fate. Perhaps even taken his own life to spare himself from the mutilation awaiting him. The Soldier seethed. He snatched the nearest item he could find—an old, worn-out shovel. This was suicidal, but so be it. He could be terrified when he was dead.

No damned space aliens were going to kill Americans on his watch.

* * *

><p>It was the best coffee the Spy had drank in a long time. Not bitter, but not overly sweetened. Not too hot, not too cold. That saucy little waitress had swirled a heart in the creamer. The morning sun was warm on his shoulders, the café's patrons soft and friendly with their words. Yet, even nestled in the wicker chair and surrounded by dozens, the Spy felt as though someone was waiting to snatch him up.<p>

He shook away his jitters, drinking another sip of coffee. Closing his eyes, he listened to the chattering around him. One woman's voice broke through the crowd, its timid quality different from the other genial words floating about. "What about the rest of their lives, though? Shouldn't they have a right to do as they please?"

"They can do whatever they would like here," an older woman responded. "Think of it as their retirement."

The Spy turned around looking for where that conversation was coming from. There were dozens of old women and young ladies around him. It was hard to tell which two were having that conversation. His eyes drift beyond them, crossing the street and watching those in the park. There were sweethearts strolling down the sidewalks, rectangular shopping bags in tow. Children laughed and tumbled, their parents watching them.

No. Wait a moment. The Spy blinked, looking at the figures furthest from the café. They lifted their heads towards him. Something was off. They had gray skin, subtle indentations in their faces. Those figures were dressed in formal suits, black with a white dress shirt and a broad tie. They smiled a little too widely, stood a little too tall. He shook his head, not sure what he was seeing. Was his coffee Irish?

"Excusez-moi," the Spy called for his waitress. "I believe zer may be somezing—"

The café was empty. Silent. The Spy stood up, looking for anyone. The entire patio was empty. He turned backwards, staring once more at the park. The sidewalks were void of people, the laughing children silenced and spirited away. Those gray men were the only remaining people. They stood in the middle of the road, watching the Spy with the same fascination as they had observed those young children. He blinked once more, then drew a sharp breath. Now they were in the café, bland and featureless save for those huge smiles. No eyes. No nose. No ears. No soul.

Did they ever have long, slender fingers, though. Perfect for going straight through his ribcage.

* * *

><p>The steer's lowing stirred the Medic out of his slumber.<p>

He patted its hide, burying his head deeper into its belly. He'd never met such a tame beast before. The cattle had been frightened when he had broken into the barn, but this steer hadn't batted an eyelash. He could have killed the Teutonic man if he desired. Perhaps it just enjoyed the warmth, even in the sweltering barn. He'd certainly done the Medic a favor, even if it was only a temporary reprieve.

It had been foolish for the Medic to try and escape in this blizzard. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to destroy his car. It seemed like a good way to fake his death, at least for the time being. Even if it bought him a couple of days on foot, it was worth every mark he'd lost in that blaze. How many weeks of work had it taken to get that vehicle? Five marks a week you must put aside. Hmph. How that line had fueled his work.

He couldn't let them see what he'd discovered. Never.

The Medic shifted his legs. His toes itched and burned. He'd developed a light case of frostbite on his journey. His latest invention had kept them from blackening and cracking off altogether, but he needed to rest if he was ever going to make the border with all of his toes still functional. That gel was a miracle. A panacea to modern medicine. He ran a hand over his face, cherry red and chapped from the rough winds. This would be nothing compared to the pain his superiors would inflict on him if they caught him. If they used his research to patch him back up, it could be eternal. Unending. The eagle would forever peck at his liver.

The steer lifted its head, turning towards the front of the barn. There was soft mumbling at the entrance. The Medic scrunched himself up, not certain of what he would see if he looked over the steer's back. No. He had to be prepared to run. He raised his eyes, watching the lit figures in the dark storm. Two were farmers, a middle-aged man and his wife. Four more stood with them, cloaked in long, dark overcoats and woolen scarves. His heart sank.

One of the four looked into the Medic's eyes. It was another old woman. She tapped the second of the four on their shoulder, drawing the attention of a dark-haired lady to the figure cowering behind the steer. The two men with the old and young women turned as well. They smiled, teeth drawing in a lupine sneer. The Medic's knees locked, frozen through with icy dread.

The crone smiled, her warm gesture as threatening as a Luger. "I will take care of them."

* * *

><p>The water went cold. Damn thing always went out at the wrong time. The water heater struggled to keep up in the morning, when most of the men went to shower. He pounded the tiled walls, but then sighed. There was no use arguing with a machine, not if he was just going to end up blowing it up. He shut the water off, wrapping a terrycloth towel around his waist. A makeshift kilt.<p>

The Demoman stumbled his way to the mirror. The Spy had his balaclava rolled up, the mask still shielding everything above his nose. It was rare that the Frenchman ever shaved. He only did that when female visitors were coming onto the base. The Soldier was to his right, buzzing his scalp short. He made a threatening gesture towards the Demoman's moppy hair, but he let the Scotsman keep it. Tavish blew him a raspberry, then set to work about fixing himself up for the day. He tilted his chin up, observing fresh stubble. No, that wouldn't do. All he wanted was his sheared, friendly muttonchops.

As he lathered his face and rinsed his razor, a strange conversation floated through the locker room. The voices were too high pitched for a typical man's tone. He glanced in the mirror, but saw nothing. Still, the talking continued. "Consider their losses. Anything taken from them can be regained. Restored."

The Demoman huffed. What a bottle of snake oil. He drew his razor, shaving away a fine layer of hair. Flipping the water back on, he noticed a trail of blood in the sink. Must have cut himself. As he turned his head up, something fell in the porcelain tub. He didn't have to look down to see what it was. There was a gouge out of his face. His chin was gone, leaving bleeding, severed muscle and white jawbone in the path of the cut.

Impossible. Impossible! He hadn't cut that deeply! He dropped his jaw, backing away from the sink. Then that fell off, too. His jaw hit the floor with a clatter, blood splattering across wet tile. The Demoman shrieked, horrified at his flailing tongue and exposed throat. Nobody turned to look at him, going about their daily routines as if nothing were happening.

Every joint oozed away from the Demoman's body, cartilage liquefying. The tubes inside his head melted, rendering the world into a mumbling, echoing mess. Nerves gave final sputters of electrical activity and sparked out. As his body continued to slough away, a weird numbness overtook him. There was no way to feel pain any more. In a way, it made the rest of his rotting peaceful. His lungs collapsed on themselves, his heart squashed flat by his ribcage falling to pieces. All it did was make him light-headed, giddy.

The last thing he lost before his consciousness burned out was his vision, his field of view shrinking to a circle no larger than a pin's head.

* * *

><p>"They will go on living their lives. It will all be normal for them."<p>

The Scout jolted, nearly jumping off of the couch. Ah, geez. He must have drifted off for a couple of seconds. How he could have done that, he didn't know. All of his older brothers were bickering, fighting over something dumb and inconsequential. His teammates were there, too. They had fallen asleep as well. What were they all doing in his mom's house? And why couldn't those jerk faces keep awake for whatever the hell was going on?

He wasn't sure what to make of the ongoing event. It looked like a party. Not a birthday party or a graduation party, though. No cake, no balloons. There were some gifts on the coffee table, but they were still wrapped up. The Scout flipped open a gift tag on one of them. There was no name on the inside, no way to identify either the giver or the recipient. It was shaped like a patched sock, the colors soft and pastel. He scratched his head. What was this about?

"Honey? What are you looking at?"

The Scout smiled. That was his mom's voice. He turned to see her. "Ah, just wondering what dis is—holy crap!"

His mom was huge. Not in, she was fifty feet tall or that she weighed two tons huge. More like her stomach was about to explode. Sure, he'd seen photos of his mom when she was pregnant with his brothers and him, but he was the youngest. He'd never seen her like this in the flesh. This was unexpected, even with his mother's well-known promiscuity. He cocked his head to the side, his jaw hanging open. Good God, what was she giving birth to? An elephant?

"Do not be rude to your mozza."

The Scout's frayed nerves burnt into ash. The enemy Spy was here? That dirty, rotten, good-for-nothing bastard! The treacherous Frenchman had his arms wrapped around his mother, hands reaching from behind to come together just below the bulge in his mother's dress. His skin crawled. Was that thing getting larger? He couldn't believe it was a part of his mother. It moved with a mind of its own. Not in a cute, active baby sort of way, either. More like a squirming sphere of fish bait. To think that French slime ball had done this to his mom!

His mother smiled, reaching a hand to caress the enemy Spy's cheek. "It's nice to have one big family again. Don't you think, honey?"

"No way I'm callen' that stabben' psycho my dad!" The Scout spat.

His words didn't phase the enemy Spy in the slightest. An evil smile crept across his face. "You do not have to. Your sisters will."

The Scout's skin crawled as he stared at his mother, betrayed and terrified by her union with his enemy. There was no way that those things in his mother's body were human. The strain on her body looked awful, her face tinged with the slightest amount of pain. Her belly kept expanding, inflating into a perfect sphere. The spawn within her kept writhing, almost if it was reaching out to find its brother. Their brother. His stomach rolled in sympathetic pains.

His mother beckoned for him, about to burst from her burden. "Come here. The babies are kicking."

* * *

><p>Nobody knew what a bad morning was like until they had to start it from inside of a water buffalo. If the stench didn't flush a person straight out, the grotesque memory of gutting the beast would. What was this, now? His fifth time? The Sniper groaned. He would have to start packing a tent when he was away from his van.<p>

He sat upright, knocking his head into a lung. Good. He wasn't slimy enough. The Sniper pawed the gunk away from his face, then rested his hands at his sides. Wait. That didn't seem right. While he could tuck his long body into a buffalo, he certainly couldn't sit up in it. Or stand up. Or walk.

The Sniper stood up, careful to avoid a thudding heart above his head. It was gargantuan, like a mutant bovine's organs. Flesh grew around him, smaller organs beginning to sprout like pumpkins. What was this? If he was inside of a living creature, he had to be causing it a lot of pain. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't be just poking around in guts without being crushed or suffocated. What was he inside of?

"If you want them so badly, then talk to the Administrator. She'll stop you."

That voice. That had to be Miss Pauling! The Sniper wove through the collection of organs, trying to find a way out. There had to be at least two exits. He'd prefer to go out the top one, but at this rate, any path would do. The cavity ended where he had woken up, no esophagus to climb out of. The back was a no-go either. No digestion tract? This couldn't be an animal! Hell, it couldn't even be alive! Yet, it responded to his movements, writhing in small shudders at each step he took.

A lower, gentle voice laughed at Miss Pauling's suggestion. "Helen will understand. She is such a good girl."

The Sniper's skin crawled. Anyone that could call that callous shrew a good girl must make Lucifer himself envious. He sighed, the lungs above him exhaling at the same time. How weird. He stopped for a moment, watching the organs move around him. Its heart was beating in time with his, its breath coming and going as the same tempo.

There was a knocking sound, the force of the blows rattling something like glass or plastic. The Sniper turned his head to the right. It was coming from beyond that lung. He ducked underneath of it, searching for what made that sound. Light was streaming in through the flesh of this beast, bright pink and full of blood vessels. A shadow stood just outside of it, pounding away at the rattling door. Wait. A door? The Sniper balked, the realization nearly knocking him over.

He was inside his living, breathing van.

* * *

><p>"Wake up! Dag nabbit, I know ya kin hear me!"<p>

It wasn't enough. The Engineer's heart sank as the Sniper's eyes closed again. The Australian had been the only one that even responded to his pleas. His teammates continued sleeping on, suspended in green, bubbling goo, masks affixed over their mouths. Genuine people jars. The Texan's fingers curled as he stepped back. He didn't know what to do.

He'd tried everything. The computers keeping the machines operational were impossible to understand, bearing keyboards with symbols that couldn't possibly be from any human language. There was no way to rip it apart, no way to pull the cord. He'd even tried punching through the glass with his metal fist, only to find that his blows hadn't even left a scratch. What he wouldn't do for one of the Spy's sappers. Instead, he was reduced to watching all of his friends slumber, hair and clothing floating in the heavy gunk.

"If you think you need to watch over them, then you could stay with me."

The Engineer turned to watch two scientists stroll past him. The older of the two had her hair pulled into a bun, the younger with two buns kept lower on her neck. The elder was the one directing their conversation. She smiled, her teeth stained. "You are so good with them, too. You could have the best part of your lives together, safe and sound here. You do not want them to be harmed, do you?"

The young—No, that was Miss Pauling! She shrunk away from the older woman, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "I don't. I won't. But this is—"

"It is not a prison. It is not an experiment." The elder turned to face the Engineer. She smiled, looking straight through him as if he were a ghost. "It is the closest thing to heaven on earth."

The Engineer snapped. He spat back at the old woman. "Let 'em go! Don't do this ta them!"

Both of the women passed by. Miss Pauling kept looking around, as if she was missing something the old woman had seen. It was like she couldn't see him. The Engineer reached out, trying to get her attention. She wasn't buying the crone's argument, but she was hesitant to snap back. If she couldn't see this, then he had to bring it to her attention. His fingers stopped inches from touching her shoulder, as if she was surrounded by a box. He tried once more, but crashed his hands against something solid again. Now he tried for the old woman, pounding away at the invisible barrier separating him from the women. It did no good, rebuffing his blows.

They left him to wallow with his silent company, all shells of their former selves. This was not a problem he could fix, and it was driving him mad.

* * *

><p>Miss Pauling stood up. She tossed her chair aside, knocking the table and spilling her tea. It didn't matter how beautiful the world was in this place. The sizes, colors, and sweet aromas from the rose garden weren't enough to lure her in. The tea was touched with bitterness. The sky emanated a surreal shade of blue, the manor vibrant and red in the bright sunlight. It may have been the most gorgeous place she had ever seen. The fact remained that none of it was real. All of it was that old woman's attempt to steal her life, her future, her possibilities.<p>

Not to mention that of the nine men outside playing cricket. Yes, they looked happy, clean in their white polo shirts. None of them were following the rules too well, horsing around when the opportunity presented themselves. Perhaps they didn't have to kill again, slog through heat and rain and whatever nonsense the Administrator could think up. That had to be something they would give up on their own. This was not something Miss Pauling nor the old lady could make them surrender.

"I refuse," Miss Pauling told the crone.

Her host gave her a bemused look. "Whatever do you mean?"

Miss Pauling words were hot on her tongue. "I don't care what you could give them. I don't care if they are happy now. Frankly, I don't see why you want them. More importantly, I don't give a damn."

"You would take away my joy?" The old woman acted as if Miss Pauling had driven a dagger into her chest.

"I don't see how keeping them in this place for the rest of their lives would help you improve yours. You are a ghost. Your time was up long ago." Miss Pauling shoved her chair in place, preparing to go gather the men. "Move on. Go to hell. It doesn't matter to me. Just let us go."

The old woman hissed. "Why do you think you came here tonight? Do you think Helen ordered you here?"

Miss Pauling stopped, turning back to face the crone. What did she mean by that? "But I thought—wait."

"Your assignment? The letters? Those monsters?" The white-haired woman's speech picked up, accelerating with glee. "What do you believe happened to the men before this team? What of the assistant before you? With machines to keep them alive indefinitely, do you think they would have died? Just quit? Moved away?" She lowered her head, sneering. "If Helen cares at all about her men, why does she not mention those that came before this crew?"

The questions were angry, their implications loony. Miss Pauling found herself stammering, pressing her back against a rose bush. "You didn't—"

"It's already done, dearie. I will have them again. I will control the Mann's war, even in the afterlife. It will end under my watch." The crone snatched a blossom off the bush, crushing the bloom in her hand. "You will all burn up and die, and that Lazarus machine will restore you once more. When that burns up, then I will lure another repairman and harvest the next crop. I will draw every last toy soldier here."

Miss Pauling snarled at the ghost. "If you're so obsessed with this war, then why don't you let us fight one last time? You against us? Unless you think you'll lose, of course." She steeled her nerves, a grin forming on her face. "Only cowards kill men in their sleep."

"Now I know why Helen hired you." The old woman smiled back. "Let us have one last match."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Wow, that was a big one! You've done enough reading, so I'll keep my AN short. Hopefully, it read quickly for you. I've actually had two of these dreams before. The last honest-to-God nightmare I had involved an apartment fire and a fireman beaning a dead crocodile at me. No kidding. It then turned into sand, and I woke up sitting upright.

We're almost done. Holding up okay? Did this meet your expectations?


	12. Crossing Over

She was lying on the ground. Her body was aching from phantom pains, tears and thorns that hadn't cut her skin but were still lodged deep down. She shivered, her life coming back to her cold, achy form. That old woman had done a number on her. Who thought an incorporeal spirit could cause so much harm? Still, Miss Pauling was alive. She was grateful for having cheated death twice.

The horror that awaited her in the waking world was worse than the silly charade that old ghost had concocted for her. The darkness of the crypt and the faint moonlight coming from above could not conceal this monstrosity. What was once clearly an elderly woman was now a bizarre parody of a human form. Her arms were withered away, skeletal forms wrapped with leathery skin and tattered cotton sleeves. Her face was hollow, eyes bright yellow against sunken cheekbones. Once perfectly styled hair was falling apart, bald patches reveling rotting skin and a skull covered in splotches of mold. If she had legs, it was impossible to tell. She was hovering off the ground, propped up by the arachnid-like monstrosity spilling from her lips. It spilled out in tendrils around the team, wrapping and binding each man, forcing them into unceasing, unyielding nightmares.

"Well?" Miss Pauling asked. "You want us to fight. Let them go!"

"Oh, dearie. You are precious, you know?" A shrill cackle reverberated in her head, the pressure on Miss Pauling's ear drums building. Was this telepathy? "What makes you think I would give them up? We can still play our little game with or without them."

Miss Pauling hissed. "You said you would!"

The old woman cracked her head to the side, rotating unnaturally around the dark stalks erupting from her mouth. There was no way anyone could speak like that, and yet that old lady's condescending words still slithered into the assistant's brain. "I said that we should have one last duel. I never said I would surrender them. They are so dear to me. I think they have grown on me. Or, perhaps I've grown into them. It's hard to tell."

"I'm not leaving without them!" Miss Pauling reached for the nearest teammate—the Pyro. As she pulled against his arm, that mysterious substance wound against her wrist. She yelped, scuttling away from the material. It left a strange pain in her arm, half like that of a winter's breeze and half as hot as liquid steel. A faint dizziness wracked her brain for a moment, but it passed with her next breath.

"If you want to take these men from me, you'll have to try much harder, dearie." She folded the nine men towards her decrepit body, holding them as close as an overprotective mother would clutch her children. "Oh, their little hearts are racing. I hope they don't give out quite yet."

Miss Pauling backed away from ghost and her collection. Her stomach was knotting up at the sight. It wasn't that she hadn't seen the men dead before. She'd seen them in any way a man could die violently. Still, their limp bodies sent shivers up her spine. Their skin had turned various shades of gray. Their eyes rolled behind closed eyelids, rapid eye movement randomly spinning in their slumber. The Heavy blinked, almost coming out of the tormented nightmare. His eyes shined with the shame horrifying luster as the old woman's. One after another, each man's eyes opened, flickering like tiny stars in the dark abyss. Jaws dropped in silent screams, saliva shining even in the faintest of lights. Miss Pauling was wracked with empathetic pains, not fearing the display but loathing what puppetry the old woman was capable of performing.

She stumbled against the silent material emancipation grill machine, standing in the brightest spot in the crypt. Even then it was no better lit than the country roads at night. She shivered, wondering what she could do against a ghost. It wasn't something that could be stabbed to death. Or shot. Frankly, without a priest and holy water on hand, she was sunk. There had to be something else. She squirmed as the ghost's collection of men reached for her, pale hands open, fingers flexing weakly.

One hand rested against the strap winding around her torso, keeping that strange shield held against her back. It fiddled with the strap's buckle as other hands sought to grasp other parts of her body. There was a hiss, and then the hand withdrew. The rest of the hands shot back as well, the men's forms now slackly staring at the buckle. What were they seeing? She fiddled with the little metallic item, catching light from the moon off of it. It shimmered towards the ghost, drawing a low growl from the woman.

"What?" Miss Pauling hadn't been expecting that. She glanced at the material emancipation grill generator. The metal was scratched, dull, rusting. Slightly reflective, but not sharp enough. The steel buckle on the crocodile shield was shiny, well polished. She played with it again, passing the reflected light across each set of eyes. The men did not react as violently as the old woman, who foamed at the glare. Seriously? Was that it? Just light?

Well, she knew how to make more of that.

Miss Pauling yanked one of the cards out of the machine. She slammed random buttons, hoping one of them would fire the grill back online. There was a bright blue blast, sending the ghastly woman and her collection reeling away from Miss Pauling. The grill manifested once again, its luminescence shielding her. Okay. Light stunned the ghost. Good to know.

"You are only prolonging the inevitable." The old woman laughed at Miss Pauling's attempts to protect herself. "This isn't hurting just me, either. Think of your poor friends."

The ghost pulled back on the team, the winding substance sending fresh waves of pain through each man's clouded mind. They howled in unison. The chord was cacophonic, shrill, haunting. Miss Pauling could pick through the shriek, finding every man's voice. The Heavy's bellow. The Scout's whining. Every tone in between—breathy, raspy, nasal, throaty. The tone didn't send fear coursing through her nerves. She was alit with anger.

Miss Pauling sneered at the old woman. "It's hard to be afraid of someone who would run away from a light bulb."

The old woman wasn't amused with her taunting. "How charming. Unless you find a way to make yourself luminescent, I would not be so foolish as to threaten me."

That bat did have a point. Miss Pauling didn't have a flashlight on her, and reflecting light from that buckle or her knife would only get her so far. She did know who could help her, though. She withdrew her knife, charging at the ghost. The old woman snorted a derisive laugh at her, then threw the collection of men at her once more. Perfect. Miss Pauling stepped to the right, prepared for the icy-hot burns as the black substance binding them reached out for her.

That pain was just as horrible as she'd remembered. It took all of her concentration to push it aside, even for a few seconds. She'd landed in the ghastly ectoplasm next to the Pyro. Perfect. She reached for the matches in his suit, producing the damp book. It was worth a shot. She forced herself out of the ghost's gunk, her legs failing to catch her as she collapsed. Luckily, that shield made for a soft landing. She pressed her finger against the head of one match, rubbing it against the coarse surface just below it. If she could force it to have just enough friction—

Orange fire burst from the tip of the match. It burned the pads of her fingers, but it was well worth it. The ghost shrieked at the flame, ectoplasm rolling away. Perfect. Miss Pauling slipped out of the shield on her back. She placed the match against the taut skin, setting the shield on fire. It rolled slowly across the surface, giving her both a functional weapon and a torch. Perhaps that was not how it was intended to be used, but dire situations force inspiration.

The ghost tried rolling around her, placing the men as a rotating barricade against the decrypt woman's body. "What are you going to do with that? Burn me? All you will end up doing is incinerating your companions. I guarantee that I can get to the Lazarus machine much faster than you can. I will slay them before you can touch me."

Miss Pauling smirked. "Who said I was going to harm you?"

Then, much to the old woman's surprise, Miss Pauling turned tail and ran. She slammed the key back into the material emancipation grill as she went by it, shutting it down once more. Like that old wench was going to touch it, the way she shrunk away from its light. God spare the man that she tricked into getting that machine working. Besides, she wanted to make sure that ghost was following her. She leapt into the underground passage, holding the flaming shield above her head. The old woman was quick to follow her, trying to have the men grab at her heels. There was something strange with their motions. They were slow, aimed incorrectly. Was she losing control over her captives?

Miss Pauling came to the beginning of the tunnel. Getting up to the church was going to be a pain, especially while holding the flaming shield. At this point, it was less of a shield and more of a wooden, burning frame. Still, she needed it for her plans. She looked upwards, finding one of the non-rusting rungs just out of reach. She leapt up for it, frustrated when she couldn't grab onto it. If she just had a little more—

The Heavy's hands caught Miss Pauling around her waist. She screamed, afraid that she was about to be pulled into the ghost. Rather, she was tossed upwards. She grabbed onto a much higher rung, digging her feet into the parts of the ladder below. Miss Pauling glanced back to see the Heavy's eyes glowing with less intensity. Color was coming back to the Demoman's skin. The Engineer was trying to talk with her, words unable to escape his throat as his jaw worked. Were they fighting that ghost, too? What was happening?

There was no time to ponder this miracle. She climbed up the stairwell, the old woman rushing to beat her to the top. The ghost slammed the trap door down in her wake. Bad move. It might have been hard to push, but it was made of wood. Miss Pauling pressed the flaming shield against it with her left arm, catching the door on fire. She held her breath, slamming the shield a few more times against it. With one sharp blow, she threw the trap door open, sending the ghost reeling from the fire.

"You would set a holy place on fire? You pagan scoundrel!" The old woman tried using guilt against Miss Pauling. That was hard to do, seeing how she was hired to occasionally off the Administrator's opponents.

Miss Pauling had no time to waste talking with the ghost. She snapped the shield in two, wielding both halves like a semaphore expert. The altar was the next portion she set alit, followed by rows of pews. Walls crackled from the flame, smoke building a thick cloud around her. She had to head outside quickly. The ghost was making it difficult for her, trying to throw flaming pews at her head. Rather, the ghost did her a favor by knocking one of the stained glass windows out. She leapt outside, not stopping to catch her breath.

The ghost howled at her. "Stop! I will crush them!" She forced another cry from the men in her clutches. This time, the sound was random, full of gibberish. It didn't sound like a scream. It almost sounded like cheering. Miss Pauling smiled. Either the smoke was screwing with her brain, or they were fighting back.

The barns were Miss Pauling's next target. She ran from one building to the next, touching old hay and fragile beams with the burning shield parts. They were almost extinguished, threatening to scald her arms and fingers. No matter. She had to destroy this place. She had to burn it all to the ground.

"That's the thing, isn't?" Miss Pauling taunted the ghost. "Can't haunt a house if it's not there! Then what will you do? Have to move on, won't you? No more house, no more ghost!"

The ghost responded by tossing a rusty pitchfork at her. It scratched her arm, but did no serious damage. That old lady had nasty poltergeist tendencies. Everything in the barns was a projectile. Buckets, stools, abandoned ice boxes—one after another, the ghost hurled them at Miss Pauling. That crone shrieked as the Soldier's hand shot out of the ghost's collection, catching one of the items before she could throw it. They were getting out of control, stronger now that her domain was going up in smoke.

Now for the manor. Miss Pauling smiled. Oh, the Administrator was going to fire her over this one. She skidded towards the main house, mud and rain buffeting her. The dying shield torches held on, fighting through the last of the storm. There may have been a great deal of rain and wind, but that helped to fan the dying embers as well. She tossed her right-hand piece into the window where she had crashed through earlier that night, setting the dining room ablaze. Just one last place to burn, and—

The Medic's Kombi hurtled towards her. Miss Pauling ducked, the metallic contraption sailing overhead. It landed with a terrific crash in the barn, knocking out support beams as it skidded on its left side. She had no time to escape the Sniper's van tumbling after the first vehicle. It smacked her with a broad sideswipe. The blow tossed her into the center of the lane, the camper van rolling to lie alongside the Medic's vehicle.

Miss Pauling must have blacked out for just a moment. She was surprised that she wasn't dead. When she opened her eyes, she saw that damned ghost hovering above her, gloating. She tried waving her last torch in the ghost's body, only to find her left arm immobile and the last piece extinguished. Inhaling and exhaling was painful, her lips and breath bloody. Well, that was it. Hard to say she could live through that.

"Really? The vans?" Miss Pauling hacked blood at the ghost. "Pretty dirty."

The old woman smiled back. "I will not let you leave me. I enjoy your company, your spirit. You will be my assistant, now. Helen will just have to understand."

Miss Pauling leaned her head back, laughing. The ghost was just as delusional as she was. The entire manor was ablaze, crumbling even in the rain. Lightning struck the clock tower, nature trying to carry out Miss Pauling's mad work. Ectoplasm spilled from the ghost, wrapping weakly around Miss Pauling's body. Neither of them was in any shape to finish the other off. Yet, it looked like the ghost was doing her damndest to add the last of Helen's team into her fold. Couldn't just let her go, could she? That bitch had to rub it in her face.

What shocked her back to lucidity was a gloved hand wrapping around her palm. Miss Pauling moved her head ever so slightly. It was the Medic's. He was pulling free from the ectoplasm entangling his own body. The ghost gasped as he yanked himself out, landing on his knees next to Miss Pauling. He paid the ghost no more attention, throwing his overcoat off. He bound it around her body, trying to comfort her. Heal her. Medical things.

The Heavy was the next to pull free. No weak ghost was going to hold him back. He rushed to Miss Pauling's side, fumbling with the Medic in an attempt to keep her conscious. The Soldier followed, pulling the Demoman and the Pyro along with him. The ghost shrieked, but her cries became softer as her captives escaped her grasp and her kingdom burned away. The Engineer tumbled out next, rushing to get supplies from the Medic's overturned van. The Sniper continued the collection, grabbing anything of use from his home. The Scout tore free, fretting around the group but being unable to help outside of his chanting for Miss Pauling to keep awake. The Spy was the last to escape, stepping out of the ghost as nonchalantly as he would exit an elevator. He turned back to face the ghost, seeing nothing. It disappeared without a plea, without one noise. Between the collapsing manor and the team's concern for their injured friend, the ghost had no fear and no domain to cling to anymore.

That pleased Miss Pauling as she gave into the darkness.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

Yes, I have an epilogue. Yes, you will have to read it. Suck it up.

Besides, I would never do anything that violates canon. Okay, nothing that would violate canon too much. You know what? Just trust me on this. I do bittersweet endings. I don't do tragedies. Maybe it's not realistic, but you know you what? I think we go through enough garbage every day not to get ourselves a little happy.

This chapter was ungodly hard to write. I thought my last one was so damn fine that there was no way I could live up to it. And I still didn't, to be honest. But this was a lot better than my other idea. I thought it would be fun to have the team fight the special infected from the Left 4 Dead series while looking for the Sniper and the Medic's car keys. Too damn zany. I think this holds tension better.

Well? Can you make it? (Also, where's Redmond?)


	13. Last Will

It was bright outside.

This surprised Miss Pauling in many ways. She was indoors, inside of some kind of infirmary. That was not a room the manor had. It felt like years since she had seen the sunshine, even restricted through curtains and blinds. No storm, no night. Most strangely, and perhaps the first thing she should have pondered, she was alive. Weirder yet, her injuries were gone. Her left arm was without pain, bones solid, fingers wiggling easily. Breathing was normal, unrestricted, clear. It was impossible as a fairy godmother.

She studied her hand, murmuring. "How am I—"

There was an awkward snort next to her. Miss Pauling jumped, startled by the sound. The Medic was sleeping next to her bed, lying on another gurney. He flung his feet over the left side, taking a moment to stretch and grab his glasses. He greeted her with a warm smile. "Guten morgen."

"Good morning." A part of Miss Pauling couldn't believe she was still alive. "Where are the others?"

The Medic made a low chuckle. "In zer rooms, I would suppose. I locked zem out of zis krankenhaus. Zey would not leave you alone."

Miss Pauling smiled, shaking her head. "I guess I'm flattered. You didn't have to do that."

"Are you kidding me? Zey were a pain in ze ass!" The Medic picked up a tongue depressor. He tapped on her chin, and she dropped her jaw. He gave her throat a quick glance, then went on to check her vision and ear canals with different tools. "Good, good."

"Where are we, anyway? This doesn't look like the main fort," Miss Pauling asked as the Medic continued studying her.

He flipped her left arm back and forth, testing to see if it was patched up. "Ze Badlands. Turns out, it was about half an hour north of ze manor. Good zing, too. Probably couldn't have kept you alive much longer."

Miss Pauling's eyes widened. "Wait. Are you saying that I—"

"Died? Ja. But just for fifteen seconds." The Medic continued rambling on, like it was no big deal. "Found a vorking medi gun. Gave you a quick zap. Zen you were fine. You vant to zink about somezing amazing? Zink about how fast zis repaired your ribcage!"

Death wasn't a big deal to the team anymore. She shouldn't have been surprised with how unimpressed the Medic was to have revived her. Still, it left her a little in shock. It wasn't often that she was faced with her own mortality. Not that it scared Miss Pauling, by any means. It left her confused, wondering about what would have happened if she hadn't lived. She didn't know if the Administrator would have missed her or not. This team might have. Probably the other team as well. She knew she was replaceable, as far as her occupation went. That was what left her uneasy. The Administrator—Helen—would have just hired someone new. Probably the rest of the team as well, if Miss Pauling hadn't freed them.

"Has anyone called the Administrator to tell her where we are?" Miss Pauling pondered.

The Medic made a flustered sputter. His glasses nearly fell off his nose. He tried regaining his composure, but it was clear that he was thrown off by the question. "Vell, no. Ve vere planning on crossing ze border, if you died. You know vat ze Administrator would have done to us if she found out you died while ve vere incapacitated?" He made a slicing sound as he drew a finger across his neck.

Miss Pauling laughed. "Guess I'll have to do it, then."

"If you vant to. Zer is a phone in mein office." The Medic offered her a hand, helping her off the cot. "Come viz me, zen."

Every base had a few provisional items left in them, just in case of bad weather, extending training, nuclear winter, or any series of problems that could leave the team stranded in a base for more than a few days. This included an impromptu hospital wing, a mess hall, several individual rooms, a locker room, a weapons storage room, a garage, and a recreational activity room. The Medic's office in the Badlands was not decorated well, but it was functional enough. It contained mostly cheap particle board furniture and a beaten couch. On his desk was a shiny rotary phone, black and smooth. The Medic stepped outside as she dialed the Administrator, fearful of the voice on the other end of the line.

It always took three rings before the Administrator would pick up. This call was no different. A dark voice grumbled into the phone. "The Badlands? You bastards blew off my Halloween event to go to the Badlands?"

"It's me, Helen," Miss Pauling said. The words came out softly. While she was used to the Administrator talking to the men like this, it was unusual to have such terms directed at her.

The Administrator's tone changed as soon as she realized who was on the line. "Miss Pauling? Where have you been? Where are those turncoats?"

"They're with me. We—well, we—it's hard to explain." Miss Pauling fumbled with her words. "We were at Redmond's manor last night. I—I burned it down."

There was a pause, and then a scratchy reply. "No, you didn't."

Miss Pauling raised an eyebrow. "I did."

"You couldn't have. That old son of a bitch was in his manor last night. He claims he wanted to talk with his uncle." The Administrator stopped for a moment, most likely to take a drag. She had a nasty chain-smoking habit, after all. "If you would have burned it down, then he would have known. Probably would have killed him, too. I got chewed out by him this morning. His call came from his residence."

Now Miss Pauling was confused. She collected her thoughts, then continued. "All right. I'll get the men and return to the main base as soon as—"

"What happened to you, Miss Pauling?" The question threw the assistant off her guard. It came out of nowhere, hungry and desperate.

Miss Pauling shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I haven't heard from you since noon yesterday." The Administrator paused, puffing again. Some of her breath caught in the receiver, rattling across the line. "You left for lunch and did not come back."

"I'm certain that I—wait." Miss Pauling stopped for a moment, doing calculations in her head. It took three hours to drive from the main base to Redmond's—whoever's manor that had been. She had gone with the Administrator. Well, that was what she thought at the time. Her head burned, her mind trying to retrieve that memory from empty cells. She had stopped at a greasy spoon to get a cup of soup and a sandwich. Then she had gone out to the car, and the Administrator had been waiting for her. No. Yes. No. Maybe?

She had been quiet on the line too long. The Administrator interrupted her muddled thoughts. "Stay where you are. I believe I need to investigate this personally."

It was going to take the Administrator most of the morning to drive up to the Badlands. Why would she want to waste time on that when she could force them to come back? Still, Miss Pauling was not about to start arguing with the Administrator. "Alright. I'll let the boys know."

The other end of the line clicked. It was rare that the Administrator ever said farewell to people on the phone. Still, the abrupt end to the conversation left Miss Pauling feeling nervous. Helen had been so flustered. It was rare to see her hackles get raised by anything other than anger. She sat at the desk for a few moments, wondering what that had been about. She smirked, shaking her head again. Maybe there was a part of the Administrator that didn't live on nicotine and vitriol. Then again, she just may wish to kill her personally for this insubordination. It was hard to tell.

She raised her eyes to the office door. Eight and a half pairs stared back at her. Apparently, the Medic had woken everybody up while Miss Pauling was on the phone. They shied away from the door, embarrassed about being caught spying on her. She shook her head, smiling. Were they that worried about her? Perhaps she might have been a little deadish last night, but she was okay now. She stood up, pushed the Medic's chair back to his desk, and opened the office door. There was a moment's hesitation, and then she was swarmed.

The Heavy beat the rush, swooping Miss Pauling off the ground in a huge bear hug. "Little woman is okay!"

"Heavy! Nein! Down!" The Medic tried coercing the burly Russian into putting Miss Pauling on the floor again.

"It's okay. He's not hurting me," Miss Pauling grunted. Sure, he was almost squeezing the air right of her lungs, but he wasn't harming her.

Never-the-less, the Heavy complied with the Medic's wishes. He plopped Miss Pauling onto the ground once more. "You did well! So brave! So much fire!" He bopped her nose with the tip of index finger, which was wider than most of her thumb's length. "You would be good with Molotov cocktails, I think!"

"Cocktails? That reminds me!" The Soldier clapped a hand on Miss Pauling's shoulder. "Now, I offered the other men alcohol and easy ladies, but if my understanding of the fairer sex is correct, then that will not be an appropriate reward for you. Name your drink and the man you want, and I will deliver both to your house in a burlap sack."

Miss Pauling blushed. She patted the Soldier's other hand. "That's—that's okay. Just a cup of coffee some time will be good enough."

The Soldier lifted an eyebrow. "I see." He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear. "It's one of the boys here, right? We'll talk later." She stammered in response, simply shaking her head.

"What would a nice lassie like her want with smelly old men, anyway?" The Demoman pushed the Soldier aside, hugging Miss Pauling in one swift move. "I'm royalty, I'll have ya know. A proper prince! Got tons a' gold and jewelry. Tell me watch ya'd like, and it's yours!"

"You are?" That seemed like a strange lie, but Miss Pauling was going to run with it.

The Demoman scratched his chin. "Yes! Well, maybe. Got a few crowns, anyway. Got ta be worth somethin', right?"

"Geez, what are ya? Sober?" The Scout barged into the conversation next. "Now, listen here. I got something worth way more than whatever crap the Demoman's got. Baseball cards. Give 'em twenty, thirty years, and they'll be worth more than stocks. Ya know what I'm sayin'? Collector's items! They're the next Fabergé eggs."

The Heavy shook his head. "Is stupid. Card cannot possibly be worth more than Fabergé. I should know. Got latest mansion by selling one." That comment drew a lot of strange looks, but nobody asked the Heavy to clarify that statement. No matter how that event happened, there had to be some serious criminal activity associated with it.

"Well, if anyone's owein' her anythin', it's me." The Sniper stuck out his hand, head lowered in shame. "Sorry 'bout my van doin' ya in."

Miss Pauling bypassed his handshake, throwing a hug around his ribs. He hesitated for a moment, then bent down and reciprocated the gesture. She laughed at his awkwardness. "It's okay. I'm fine. Besides, I kind of wrecked your shield."

The Sniper chuckled as well. "It's replaceable. Would've been impossible ta get another one of you."

Both the Scout and the Spy made faces. The younger of the two stuck his finger in his mouth and pretended to gag. The elder rested his face in his palm. "Merde. If zat was any more saccharine, I would have contracted diabetes."

"Now, Spy. Is this the best time ta be pickin' fights?" The Engineer offered his mechanical hand. She took it, reaching around his shoulders and giving him a quick squeeze as well. He laughed, but tried not to make a big fuss about it. "I'm gonna make sure you're in the respawn system, all right? I know I've got a copy of ya lyin' around somewhere. Hell, might as well make a new one of ya while we're here, right?"

Miss Pauling nodded. She tilted her head to the side. "So, do you think I wasn't in there before?"

The Engineer shrugged. "Well, if ya are, I can't see ya. It's possible that I'm not allowed to take a look at yer profile, though. The Administrator tends to be mighty secretive. She could have ya as an ace up her sleeve. Need ta play around with the system's permissions."

The Spy interrupted the Engineer's ramblings. "Speaking of which, you were on ze phone with ze Administrator, were you not?"

"Yeah." Miss Pauling put a hand on her hip. "She said she's coming here to see us."

The air pressure in the hospital room changed as the men collectively gasped. There was a confused muttering as they wondered aloud about what to do. Miss Pauling sighed. Were they really all that worried? Sure, she didn't fear the Administrator all that much, but she didn't know why nine tough, hard-boiled men would be that scared of her. Helen did have a way of dealing with people who failed her, but none of these men had done that. Heck, if it wasn't for their quick thinking, Miss Pauling would be dead.

"I see only one reasonable solution." The Spy crossed his arms. "We tell ze Administrator ze truth."

The Medic frowned, unsure of what the Spy's offering meant. "And zat is—"

The Spy smiled. "It's ze Sniper's fault."

That sent the Australian sputtering. "N-now, wait just a tic."

"I'm sorry, but it iz ze truth. Your van hit ze poor, unfortunate lady, so you must suffer ze consequences." The Spy gave a feigned sigh of sympathy, wrapping an arm around the Sniper's shoulders. "I would not fret, zough. From what I understand, ze Administrator has a zing for Australians. You know, in ze boudoir. Probably one round wiz her, and you will be back doing rounds wiz us. So to speak."

Miss Pauling blushed. She knew a little bit too much about what the Spy was talking about. There had been a rather embarrassing event where she'd walked in on Saxton Hale and the Administrator—well, that wasn't important. She winced, "That's probably a little extreme, Spy. I think she'll be understanding about the situation, once I talk with her."

"You're ruining my fun," the Spy huffed.

The Medic shook his head. "Now, zat is enough. Ve should all get prepared for ze Administrator's arrival, ya? Besides, ve are all hungry. Might as vell continue zis over breakfast." He turned his attention to the Engineer, trying to guilt him into cooking. "You know, eggs. Hash browns. Waffles."

"I can take a hint, Doc." The Engineer looked at the rest of the crew. "Goes faster when I have help, though."

Everyone agreed to chip in on at least one item. They exited the infirmary, ready to start the breakfast routine. The Pyro hung back for a moment. That struck Miss Pauling as odd. She stopped, curious about what he was doing. "Everything okay, Pyro?"

He gave her a thumbs up. "Brpt brs br kewrest arfen Ai'f effer pfeen."

She didn't know quite what he meant by that, but Miss Pauling took it as a compliment. "Thank you." She fumbled in her pockets. "Did you want your matchbox back? Sorry I had to steal it from you."

"Phenk pfu!" The Pyro took the matches from her. She gave him a warm smile, then went to join the others in the kitchen. As she left, he gave the matchbox a quick hug, then tucked it away, like a child protecting his good luck charm.

That tinderbox meant the world to him now.

* * *

><p>When the Administrator had arrived in the Badlands, she wasted no time with chit-chat. The entire group had been ordered to return to the manor where they had spent their evening, regardless of personal feelings about the location. Their vehicles weren't in the best of shape for the travel, but they ran well enough. The Administrator drove between them, the Sniper's van taking point and the Medic's Kombi at the rear. It was like escorting a high-profile government official or a celebrity. Well, perhaps if the VIP was strapped for cash and hired cronies with beat-up vehicles.<p>

Upon arriving at the manor, nobody could believe what they saw. Sure, they expected to see quite a bit of burned buildings, but the state of the manor's disrepair went far beyond arson. It was like driving into a ghost town. Wooden support beams were gray in the sunlight, charred black from the fresh fire. Siding and walls were gone. Mud had oozed down the rolling lane, wiping away any signs of tire tracks. The clock tower's face was gone, the hands snapped off. The manor itself was nothing more than timbers and ash. No grand windows. No stained glass. Not even any signs of wallpaper or furniture. Its grandeur could not have been destroyed by one day's worth of damage. A century had scavenged the manor, leaving its carcass bared for all eternity.

"What in the name a—" The Demoman began to ask, but his question died before anybody could answer him.

The Administrator was uncharacteristically quiet as she stepped out of the car. She studied the wreckage, a thin frown keeping her cigarette in place. Whatever she thought behind that visage, it was hard to say. She studied it for a long time, long enough for the men to get bored and start their own investigations. There was nothing of interest for them to find. The robot left in the conservatory was rusted to bits. The ladder to the passageway underneath the church was corroded and gone. The kitchen had no sandwich making materials. It was a complete and total wreck, one that had stolen their time and their possessions.

"How did you come to this place?" The Administrator asked Miss Pauling. It was nice to have the short gal at her side once more, even if she was loathe to admit it.

"You—well, I thought it was you—lead me here." Miss Pauling scratched my head. "I'm not sure where I left my car, though. I had to have parked it around here somewhere."

The Administrator closed her eyes, taking a quick smoke. "If I were you, I'd check that lake south of here. It's where I would dispose of a car, anyway."

Miss Pauling raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. She took her leave of the Administrator, quick to find if that was the case. More importantly, if her keys were still with the vehicle. It wouldn't be a complete tragedy if she lost the car. It was a bit of a wreck, and frankly, the Engineer spent more time getting it up and running than any other car in their fleet. Still, it was her first and only car. It would be hard to replace it.

The Administrator continued smoking, her thoughts hidden in a haze. She flicked her cigarette to the side, preparing to light a new one. As she stepped on the butt, something on the ground caught her attention. She narrowed her eyes. Kneeling down as to not wrinkle her suit, she picked the item up. It was made of ivory, slender and intricately carved. It was either chopsticks or a woman's hair decorations. Most likely to pull hair back into a bun. Something was familiar about it. Had she seen Miss Pauling use these before? No. That seemed too expensive for her. Perhaps it had been someone else, like an aunt. A grandmother. Or—

No.

The Administrator snarled, the objects now familiar. She dropped them, their weight now unbearable. To think it that she'd see those again. That bitch! This was her place, wasn't it? What a clever little trap, building a replicate manor! The teams would have never known the difference. No wonder they hadn't come back after all those years. Even after she was gone, dead and buried, that greedy little—It was enough to make the Administrator seethe. She stomped on the hair decorations, cracking them in two.

She would have spent an eternity fuming if Miss Pauling wouldn't have come back. Her assistant was distressed, half-soaked. "You're right. It's in the lake. I—I don't know how it could have—"

"Get the men to fish it out. Then we leave." The Administrator stepped back into her car. She wasn't going to stay her a moment longer than necessary.

Miss Pauling knew better than to ask the Administrator questions about her emotional state. Rather, she asked the question she used more often than any other line of dialogue with her boss. "Is there anything else I can do?"

The Administrator nodded, the action slow and uneasy. "Salt the earth."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>

There! I did it! Hooray! And I finished it before—before Thanksgiving? Oh, what the hell!

It was good to write something like long again. I have a bad habit of not finishing longer tales. This was particularly difficult to do, since I was juggling so many characters and personalities. I tend to work better in situations that have only two people interacting at a time. (Then again, who doesn't?)

I think I lost some of my readers towards the end, though. Oh well.

I hope you enjoyed! I'm going to take a break this week, do a little research, then start writing again next week. I've got three subjects in mind. One is a story about a big blue box, the second a knife, and the third a semi-kinda-sorta Wonambi sequel. Let me know what you'd be interested in reading.

Have a good…whatever holiday you want, I suppose.


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